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Chapter Text

Honestly, you're impressed that Sleuth's mouth can keep spewing all these excuses, and muttering all these obscenities under his breath, for so long without breathing. The dull pain of the bandages and the cast on your leg throbs to remind you that the game has upped itself in ways that cause you to reminisce of the days of the Mobster Kingpin, but one cannot help but wonder what sorts of adventures you are all in for now that this up and coming new gang has caught Mr Sleuth's attention. Softly, you take a sip of tea and then try to gather your constantly scattered thoughts; attempting to catch at least one inside the net of coherency for a few valuable seconds whilst you process what your 'oh so fearless leader' is so angry about.

From what you can gather, the explosion at the bank was caused by a gang that are calling themselves the Midnight Crew, and subsequently said gang is also trying to take over the city's underworld. Listening to Sleuth provides the information that their leader is a short and angry character who goes by the name of Spades Slick, and who also has a penchant for randomly jumping detectives in nearby alleyways. This to you speaks of overconfidence, a need to fight, a primal instinct to be a fighter before a thinker. The interview, however, that Mr Sleuth spoke of, tells you that something is somewhat amiss with the sudden appearence of this gang of mobsters. The things Mr Slick mentioned. The way he spoke.

“It's almost puzzling.” You fail to catch yourself from wondering that out aloud.

“Puzzlin'? You're damn right it is. That guy spoke ta me like a guy that didn't know about shit. A guy that ain't never been here before, or tackled a capable detective in his life. Truth be told, he seemed surprised ta get his ass caught. Soon stopped yakkin' once I arrested him.” Sleuth jumps straight into another half rant about the previous evening's events and continues to flick through a file that he has – very roughly you might warrant to add – pulled together on the cause of his discontent.

Lighting up a cigarette, Sleuth goes on to tell you what he knows about the rest of the members of this rag tag crew. Droog. The tall sharp dressed one. Sleuth does not like him one bit. To you, he reeks of a professional, someone who knows what he is doing to the slightest detail; a man who could easily count how many times he inhales in every single minute, as well as tell you how many times you did the same action. Sleuth informs you that this 'mook' paid for Slick's bail in full and barely even batted a single eyelid the whole time he was at the station. No. Sleuth does not like him at all.

Then there is the little guy. The short one who both you and he saw fleeing from the scene of the crime. You're not sure what his name is, but on first glance he seems to have the stature of a runner of sorts. A nobody. Someone who is a general scout for the crew. You're not that sure. It's too vague to say at this point.

Finally, there is the big guy. The huge hulking walking brick wall. Mr Ace seems quite taken with him. From what you hear, he got into something of a fist fight with this behemoth and actually had to go all out to make the 'bastard' even flinch. Ace Dick – Mr Ace to you – is the strongest man you know. Even amongst the police force's elite he's feared for his notorious temper and his permanent bad disposition. You dread to think how much they'd fear someone who stands on equal ground with him.

Of course, aside from these four shady characters, there is a matter as to how many members actually make up the Midnight Crew itself. How many are working behind the scenes whilst the Boss and his runners hit banks across town?

Softly you scribble at notes whilst Mr Sleuth goes off on another rant.

“I ain't never seen nothin' like this guy. He was too well trained, yanno? This wasn't just some fuckin' street brawl, this was a well planned and well executed attack. I'm startin' ta think that the little guy was just the bait for us, yeah? This guy had all the style an' grace of a freakin' drunken dog, an' yet he managed ta damn near scratch me up like a cat on crack! Somethin' ain't right with these guys. They're too...organised.”

“You think that this was just a game to them?” You lift up your head to inquire. During the three years you have been business partners with Mr Sleuth and Mr Ace, you've found that the best time to interject is during the pauses.

“Maybe. The Boss seemed ta be enjoyin' himself. He just told them he'd catch up to them later. Waved off help just ta tangle with me in an alley. It was like they were tryin' to be seen. Tryin' ta make a statement. I mean, from what we know, the damned bank incident left us without evidence. We ain't got nothin' to prove that these guys even did it, an' yet they're practically announcin' they did it!!!!” When Sleuth pauses this time, you do not have anything to say. He hit the nail on the head with that one, and pretty much summarised your collective feelings on the matter.

Frustrating indeed.

“So what I was thinkin' was...” Oh goodness. It is never a good time for Mr Sleuth to say that. You almost dread what crazy scheme he is about to put into motion, yet both Mr Ace and yourself continue listening anyway. Perhaps you are just as insane as Mr Sleuth's schemes?

“Why don't we do a little tailin'? See what we can dig up about these guys? After all, if they're gonna be regular contenders on the crime scene, we'd better know what we're goin' against. I got my dibs on the Boss, of course.” When Sleuth smiles, it is somewhat unnerving, especially when the words are followed with the gesture of him slamming a fist into an open palm as though itching for a fight. He then turns his attention to Ace, “You get the big guy and the short stack.”

“Sure. Whatever.” Ace rolls his eyes. It was somewhat obvious that the city's strongest man would go after the city's seemingly strongest criminal. Which obviously left you with...

“Pickles, you got Mr Suit and Tie.”

Oh how wonderful...

Chapter Text

This...was not a good idea.

As you stand in the hallways of the building that holds the offices of Team Sleuth, you regard the small black leather wallet in your hand with your usual vacant stare. It is beautifully crafted. You do believe that you have never had the pleasure of holding such a fine piece of craftsmanship in your hands before. Weighty and smelling oh so faintly of leather and cigarette smoke. Taken from the pocket of someone who most certainly will be wanting said wallet back and who is just as high quality and high profile as the wallet itself.

You briefly wonder why it is you who is standing there holding the wallet and not its owner – who probably deserves it a lot more than yourself – and then you realise that you are not quite sure.

Perhaps it seemed a good idea at the time?

Of course, you now know that this is a terrible idea, one that could quite possibly have you hunted down and shot without any consequence what so ever on the part of the man who chooses to do so, but you were perhaps a little desperate for clues and this seemed like the most appropriate way of gathering some information?

It all started in the Brothel In The Sky; you do recall that much.

Since Madamme Muriel married his Royal Highness The Weasel King, the Brothel had been handed over to the capable hands of Hysteric Dame and your ex-love Nervous Broad (not that it had ended bitterly in any way, you might like to mention. You both just decided that you were more like siblings than romantic partners, and it was a mutual break up. Not one that left any scars whatsoever. Nope. Not you. That would be terribly rude of you to hold any grudge of any kind). Both girls have always been as different as they could possibly be, but in the right setting they are more than capable of running a business together. With Dame's outgoing attitude and Broad's meticulous planning, there was nothing that really could have gone wrong there. They've been very successful, and the Brothel is the highest paid one in the city now.

You have, of course, as a true friend should, expressed concerns that Broad should not be dabbling in that kind of work, but Dame has always more than assured you that she'll keep her pal safe, so you really could not twist their arms away from the idea of continuing on Muriel's legacy. Not that you could have done that in a literal sense either. Dame would eat you for breakfast and then complain that there was not enough on you to have really been a challenge in the first place.

It stands to reason, then, that you were more than a little concerned by the phone call you recieved from Dame. If anything worried a woman who was more than capable of looking after herself, then it was bound to be something that could easily tear you apart. Not that you had a choice in the matter of whether you dealt with her inquiry. Oh goodness no. You'd never refuse Dame. You're not that suicidal. Or a risk-taker like Sleuth, in hindsight.

When the phone had rung, you had idly picked it up, speaking in your usual halting tones, “G-good aftern...noon! T-Team Sleuth's Office, Pick-”

You had barely even finished your name before you had been cut off with a harsh bark of, “Oh thank GPI! Pickle, it's Dame.”

The girls had always stayed in touch with Team Sleuth. Hearing Dame's voice was at least some comfort. You were always inclined to relax somewhat when addressing the girls. Nothing could have possibly been wrong in your mind at the time. Cutting you off was just Dame's way, “Ah, M-Miss Dame. Hah-how are you?”

“Never mind that, PI, this ain't a social call, you know? (Was it ever from her, you often wondered, at least Broad regularly stayed in touch) I need one of you Team Sleuth boys down here now!” Dame certainly knew how to panic you when necessary. Then again, most people did. It still did nothing to reassure that knot of dread forming in your stomach.

“Ah well...Mmm-Mr Ace ah-and Mr Sleuth are...are out on s-seperate cases at the m-moment. Would you like mmme to leave a m-m-message?” It is not that you are not eager to help the ladies in anyway, you would never be that inconsiderate, but the jobs that are often available at the Brothel are ones that would require someone who is at least capable of handling themselves in a fist fight. Not so much this time, however.

“Actually, Pickles, you'll do. Can you get here as soon as? It's kinda urgent.” Dame seems all to eager on the other hand. It almost made your stomach sink when she was.

“Ah-are you sure? I could...I mean I could w-wait and p-pass the mmmessage on to someone mmore.....capable?” Pultritude is not your primary stat, and you are sure that you could not have persuaded her otherwise even if you tried, but you at least made a futile attempt.

“Actually,” Oh goodness. She was almost purring and it made your heart feel as though it was about to burst out of your chest, “It is sort of your business.”

You're not sure when your voice became hoarse, but your nervousness could no longer be contained, “O-oh?”

“Y'see, Ace was here a while back tailing some guy who wanted to look round the brothel. Huge guy. Looked like he could give Ace a run for his money, really. Very loud and shouty too. Nearly gave Broad a heart attack. Guy even threatened us with an Ace of Hearts to get in. A TV antennae. Innoculous double.” The penny should have dropped then, but all you were thinking about was the Club card that had become a bomb back at the bank. Your leg still throbbed from the pain it had been through. Dame had continued without waiting to see if you would respond, “Turns out he just wanted to pay like all the regulars did. Even asked us for a VIP card – which he paid for in full. Broad liked his manners once she got over being threatened. The girls said he was real romantic with them.”

Not that you needed to know that, but something had rung the alarm bells in the way that the theme surrounding the crew seemed to be the playing card motif. Dame's short re-telling of this scenario, however, had given you time enough to gather a lot of thoughts into the net of your brain. You picked one out at random, “That...is rather fascinating...but wh-what does the Heart fellow have to do with mmme? Is Mr Ace n-not there?”

“Naw. He left. Along with the big guy. Surprisingly, we got another visitor after that. Guy was sharp as diamonds. Well dressed. Very snappy. Demanded the best we had. The best room, the best performers, the best booze. This guy wanted the full sha-bang. He gave his identity with an Ace of Diamonds.”

You were at the Brothel before you could even think.

It was rather foolish of you really. You had not even laid eyes upon the man before, and had only ever been given mere description of him by Mr Sleuth - whom you would hate to admit gives the most terrible descriptions of people; not quite as bad as Mr Ace, who has the imagination of a wet paper towel, but still cutting the mark very close on descriptions that could easily class as anyone. You were also very unsure about how you were going to approach the man if you saw him, or if you were going to at all! Plus how would you even see him? How would you know if he was leaving whilst you stood blind?

Well, it had turned out that the girls had one-way mirrors built into their office floor so they could keep an eye on the girls who worked for them, and make sure they did not come to any harm.

There are certain scenarios, even with your vast intellect, that you could never imagine in a million years. Walking into the office to see your target getting intimate with one of the girls he'd paid for as soon as you were welcomed into the office was one of these things.

The imagination stat is a very unusual one as far as stats go. Those who choose to spend their EXP on Imagination often neglect their Vim or Pultritude stat, rendering them quite useless in terms of actual manual labour or puzzles that require heavy lifting and such. However, it is a stat that has an incredible amount of bonus' available to the user, ranging from battling in the imaginary world by conjuring up weaponry, to having an extremely photographic memory. Every little detail of every scenario could be remembered at any given time thanks to the latter skill, and – incidentally – this was the skill that decided to come into play once you laid wide ogling eyes on the man through the mirrors below you.

In short, you would never, no matter how much you prayed to GPI, forget that image.

Not even the confines of your trench coat, in which you quickly dove into, could erase that one.

Dame was laughing, and you were sure you heard Broad whisper softly, “I told you that it would have been more polite to at least warn him first.”

It was some time before they could coax you into looking once again at the man's face (oh goodness gracious that woman has a mouth like a - ) and you were pretty sure that your brain had more or less (tan tan tan tan muscles oh dear he works out) broken itself as you tried to keep your mind (not even moaning he has a face like stone and he looks so clean and oh GPI he just oozes smoothness) focused on the task at hand.

What you could gather, from glancing at his clothes folded on the chair (black on black on white like the whites of his eyes), was that this man was certainly the Mr Suit and Tie (and guns let us not forget the guns that are hung on the back of the chair) that Sleuth had complained about. He was casually smoking a cigarette (with his hand on the girl's head as she - ), eyes half lidded, with an expression more akin to boredom than anything.

Dame commented on how rude it was to show disinterest in the women one paid for, but you did not hear the rest because you were too busy focusing on (that hair, those lips, those eyes, that toned tan flesh that reeks of danger and sophistication) the matter at hand.

It was then that those cold dead grey eyes seemed to glance (at me at me at me at me he's looking straight at me and oh god he sees me he knows he knows) upwards into the mirror above him and you were forced to tear your eyes away from the scene and pace rapidly to the back of the office in an effort to collect yourself.

Eventually, after you were feeling somewhat less shaken, the man redressed and paid his whore (such a dreadful word), before placing another cigarette between his lips and heading out the door, without even a parting word to the poor girl.

Stumbling down the staircase in an attempt to get out of the Brothel so you could tail him once more seemed like a good idea at the time. You most certainly were not expecting the impact that followed you opening the door, nor were you expecting the floor to be so eager to greet you.

Just your luck for him to have had trouble lighting his cigarette at the door.

When you glanced up, your body seemed to freeze completely as you found yourself staring straight into those cold dead eyes. Mr Suit and Tie did not look amused. A glare was thrown in your direction, and those grey orbs gave the arm that you had walked into a quick scan, as though to check if you had left a mark or damaged the material of the jacket slung over it in any way.

You did not speak because you were looking up at this man and imagining what you had seen happen previously.

His upper lip curled a little and, as he spoke with a dangerously low and raspy tone, you caught sight of sharp pointed teeth. That voice stabbed you in the chest with every syllable, “Watch where you are going.”

At least that seemed to snap you out of your confused thoughts, “O-oh! M..mmost t-terribly...s-s-s-sorry....”

Dame and Broad hovered in the doorway to the office behind you. There was concern on their faces, but you only registered that afterwards because you were too busy trying not to get killed by the man who you now knew carried two very nice and expensive looking pistols underneath that beautifully tailored suit.

Another sneer and then smoke was blown in your direction, stinging your eyes a little, the man not even bothering to give you a second look as he walked out the doors and into the streets that now connected the Brothel's Island to the rest of the city.

It was then that you felt the weight of the wallet in your hand and had to excuse yourself from Dame and Broad's company; despite their insistence for you to stay a while.

You did not stop walking until you reached the offices, which is where you are now, still stood in that same hallway, with the wallet of an extremely dangerous man feeling heavier than lead in your hands.

Not even your imagination can tell you what to do next. You have never stolen a wallet before. This is the kind of act that becomes somewhat instinctive once one gets into detective work.

Honestly, you're not even sure if you'll live to see tomorrow.

Chapter Text

There is not a lot that can be said for the theft of a dangerous mobster's wallet. The punishment if (when) you are found out would be most severe, certainly, but for now you must think of this as Mr Sleuth would often be so inclined to: this wallet is evidence and you must study it to find out more about the person who owns it.

Cards are removed, notes are made on the location of the cards and how they were placed inside the wallet so they can be put back just so, and then the wallet is checked over thoroughly. There are two bank cards with the same name on them, both for extremely high maintenence bank accounts, and three cards that all have different names on them. One card is a VIP card for the Brothel In The Sky and is marked merely with the initials 'D.D.' No other names are given. The name that matches on the two bank cards is 'D.Droog'. The other three read 'Mr A.Reid', 'Mr W. King', and 'Mr W. Vogal.' You're sure you've heard those names before, but you would rather look into the matter later.

The last card you find in there is a playing card. An Ace of Diamonds. On the back is an unusual motif of a bloodied Spade surrounded by the three other suits. Black background with white lines. You try flipping that one a few times, but it does not appear to flip into a double. Maybe it is merely just a playing card, or perhaps you have not learned how to use playing card doubles yet. Still, it seems to be a barcode card. Probably used for getting in somewhere. You'd dread to think where.

There is an element of fear that comes with rifling through the contents of a mobster's wallet.

Of course, you have started the investigatation now, so there is obviously no going back from this point. A quick sweep over tells you that there is nothing else to be learned from the contents within. Every card that Mr Droog (at least you have a better name for him than Mr 'Suit-and-Tie' now) would have ever needed was inside that wallet, and there is no space taken up by unnecessary clutter. Immaculate. Efficient.

Then again, you know better than to stop there. Every wallet you have ever observed in this fashion has yeilded hidden, and sometimes unexpected, fruit inside the very leather that is so very nicely stitched to the outside. It is not uncommon for there to be a secret compartment or two.

You can feel the panic rising within you as you start to pick around the edges of the leathery surface, skilled fingers adept at finding the information you so desire from your evidence, until your nail snags on a tiny square of loose leather and you are able to peel it back carefully. This time, you hit the jackpot; much to your own worry.

Diamonds Droog is the name that belongs to the membership card hidden within. The Midnight Crew is the name that belongs to the mobsters that Mr Sleuth has managed to get on the wrong side of. This is what you needed. A membership card that tells who exactly you should be on the look out for.

When you smell it, your keen senses pick up the expensive cologne that Mr Droog uses, and the faint traces of gunpowder and soot. It is clear that this sleek and dangerous individual is often around colleagues who use explosives and keep their weaponry very close. You do not think it is him, however. Droog's wallet itself smells only of cologne and leather, and the man himself looked too sharp and clean to dabble in the dealings of explosives and arson.

No, you think to yourself as you turn the wallet over to check if there is anything you may have missed, Diamonds Droog looked professional. The only other scent you can identify amongst leather and cologne is cigarettes, very strong smelling cigarettes, but nothing that identified as coming from handling explosives. This man does not use those methods. He smells of something much more dangerous. You can tell. There was something about his manner that made you shiver and quake – more so than usual.

You write your notes up, sighing softly, and try to ignore the shaking in your hands as you place everything back in the wallet and resolve to take it back to the brothel first thing tomorrow. Your thumbs softly smooth the secret compartment back into place. It goes without saying that you do not wish to have this item in your possession for longer than you need to.

Besides, you know everything you need to know, or could possibly learn from this. The name of the Midnight Crew will soon be known over every police station in the city. There is a dread inside your gut that this would have occured even if you had not obtained the wallet. Judging from the events the other day, these people want themselves to be known, and you suspect, as you crawl into bed in an oversized night shirt, that they will surface again before you could even turn in this report.

That night, your dreams are filled with tall dark faceless shadows that leer over you as you try to run away; their presence dripping into every nook and cranny. Stalking you over the city like you were mere prey to them. Everywhere you turn your head, the shadows are there, slinking down the walls of buildings and pooling across the ground in their efforts to reach you. They do not have a shape that you can identify, but every once in a while you catch sight of long thin fingers that reach from the inky blackness in an effort to grasp the back of your jacket, and terror fills your entire being. The last time you catch sight of them, they hook themselves into the gasp between your shirt and your neck, and you feel the coldness and strength within that grip as it violently wrenches you backwards. When you are surrounded by shadows, held in the vice-like grip, you catch a glimpse of a shirt and jacket at the end of that claw. A shirt and jacket that belong to a shadow whose features are beginning to shift into something more sleeker. More deadly. Cold dead eyes staring straight at you, into you. Before those thin lips can open to utter the words that linger in the air, you feel your heart almost freeze within your chest, and you panic and stumble head first into the world of the waking once more.

When you do awaken, the wallet is sitting innocently on your dressing table, and you cannot help but cast a glance at it that clearly blames it for all of the nightmares that you have had to endure. You fear you are almost all too eager to take that wallet back to the brothel as soon as you are up and dressed.

Chapter Text

Your name is Diamonds Droog, and you are currently leaning against the wall of one of your casinos, enjoying the cold midnight air (and a casual cigarette) as you turn the card in your fingers over and over. You are no stranger to the unusual matters of the world. Already you have become adapted to the feeling of skin and flexible muscle instead of sinew and rock hard carapace, and you are more than adept at discovering how much force should be used against these walking bags of meat until their pathetic little bones begin to snap and break; which, you've discovered, is not much at all.

You were always productive with your time, really. From the minute you were aware that your hard shell was now flesh, to the minute you stepped out of the casino some five minutes ago, you have been thinking, planning, learning, adapting. You suppose it is one of your best qualities. Slick and the others would probably agree were it in your nature to fish for such compliments. You have long since adapted to these humans and their ways.

Books and research and observation led you to so many wonderful places. You have mastered torture and interrogation and pressure points in these past few months whilst the crew were building themselves back up to their former strength. Extending your fingertips often results in an almost pleasurable feeling of shadow magic. Flexing your arm in just the right way and halting the descent of a pool cue at the exact second it impacts can render a man unconscious but not dead. These are all things you learnt and have been expected to learn should you wish to regain your title as the most dangerous man in the city.

Not that titles have ever meant anything to you before, but there is now that foolish human idea of 'pride' planted within you, and now that you have a word for it (and a way of actually feeling it) you suppose that it is all too appropriate to have that feeling about that particular subject. That is the one thing you have yet to master. Human emotions. They...is confuse the right word? You would stab a guess at it being correct, but that thought process aside, emotions certainly trigger the reaction that is confusion within you.

Confusion is what you are feeling now looking at this card, so there was a point to that whole internal side tracking.

What you are looking at it a card that you stole from a now marked man as he foolishly ran head long into you as you were leaving the brothel last night. You had felt those long thin fingers slide into your jacket pocket, and you had barely reacted as you glanced downwards and noticed the descent of your wallet into his pocket. Yet you had not crushed his face beneath the bottom of your nicely polished shoes at the exact moment it had happened; you would never humiliate yourself in that manner in front of the two managers of the brothel itself. You had every intention of going back in there as a somewhat regular customer. Something to alleviate the boredom on the weekends.

What you had done was slide your hands into his pockets as he took what was yours, and remove what you had hoped was a card to the address of the soup kitchen he frequented - or perhaps a hotel calling card of the doorway he often slept in - and two tootsie rolls.

Stepping outside and glancing down at the card in your hand was what had caused the unfamiliar sensation of confusion inside your brain. That confusion (may the Black Queen's eyes be damned, you are using that word a lot today) was also what led you to spare the shambling, stumbling, skinny figure from a whole world of hurt as he practically fell out of the brothel some time later and ambled his way down the streets to his apartment on those impossibly thin legs.

You had followed him, of course, because you had every intention of getting your wallet back at some point, and you had seen him head up to a set of offices in a building that you have seen many business associates of yours go into time and time before. Again, you had not quite been sure of what action to take when you had confirmed your worst suspicions.

What you had assumed was a filthy street lurking hobo was, in surprising fact, a detective.

That frail, thin, mess of a human with wide staring eyes and the inability to walk through a doorway without tripping over his own two feet, was one of the cities' most questionable examples of a detective. An inspector to be precise, or so it said on the business card in your fingers, although you know that it would not be his real name printed on that card.

You have never been this wrong about a single living thing before.

If you knew what laughing even felt like, you are fairly sure this would be a delightful punchline to an incredibly bad joke, but at the current moment it is more similar to some higher deity’s deliberate assault on you.

So you have let him live for now. You watched him scurry away to a wreck of an apartment, and you came to a casino that you purchased last week to see how things were getting along in the refurbishment of the place. You've been there ever since, idly giving orders to the workmen in regards to where and how you want things, and dealing with a lot of paperwork.

The whole time, you have been in this permanent state of disbelief at the fact that you were so very wrong in your previous judgements.

You are fairly sure that you are creeping close to feeling something akin to the human emotion of rage, but you are much too level headed to ever be triggered by that particular sensation. Instead, you have settled on being merciless to the workmen in your expectations of the speed they should be working at and the manner in which they are working. Already you have had to beat one of them into submission; although you would never like to admit it, you cannot deny that it always makes you feel better, and the workmen have started to pick up the pace as a result of it.

Smoke curls around your head as you finish off your cigarette and you wonder what is to be done in regards to the detective that now has your wallet in his little stash of evidence. The thought that the women at the brothel somehow suspected you were a member of a criminal organisation and called in a private detective on you makes your blood boil – inwardly, of course.

Also, you know what evidence there is to find in your wallet. You know that Slick's precious little Midnight Crew will be named and shamed if the detective knows where to look. Your name and your face will be matched in the police records.

In short, you actually may have – and may the darkest horror terrors rid you of all strength in your bones for even thinking this – fucked up.

Big time.

That concept is what causes you to curl your lip in disgust and crush your cigarette butt against the wall violently. The Ace of Diamonds is pulled from your deck and tucked into your sleeve as you grab your jacket from within the casino and make sure that you are presentable in the large mirror in the manager's (your) office.

Boxcars gives you a bewildered look as he lifts the grand piano onto the stage with one of the workmen, but you know that his simple mind cannot possibly fathom the indescribable sensations that are coursing through your body like wild fire. Instead, you bark at him to continue with whatever the hell it was he was doing and keep an eye on these bastards to make sure they do not break anything valuable. The taste of pure unfiltered anger on your tongue almost makes you choke and fly even more off the handle, but Boxcars' almost shocked expression is what makes you keep a lid on the shit storm brewing in that particular cauldron.

He reluctantly responds in the affirmative to your demands, but there is that certain pause lingering in the air that informs you of his rising urge to add something else to the end of that, so you quickly turn tail and exit the casino before he can reopen that mouth of his.

That scruffy, ragged, twitching little wreck of a detective is going to feel your wrath tonight.

You are personally going to ensure that you do not suffer the indignity of being revealed to the city by some part-time, wallet thieving, rat of the law. When you decide to show the world who is the new owner of the title of 'most dangerous man in the city' it will be in a manner of your choosing and certainly NOT because some two-bit little raggedy PI decided to mess with your shit!

A quick pass by the office block confirms his location.

From the darkness of the alleyway across the street, you can see his light is still on inside his office, and occasionally you see his tall silhouette pass by the window as he moves around what he probably believes is his own little sanctity of safety. There is a dark thrill rising within you as you know that you will soon prove that theory oh so wrong. It is the most unusual feeling you have ever been privy to. Excitement and want and need.

You think, perhaps, that you might be the sort to enjoy these terrible deeds that you do to others.

Another thought is that you really do not care if you are.

Chapter Text

You almost leap out of the skin you are currently inhabiting when someone raps sharply at the door to your office.

Your mind has always held a certain paranoia about that door. It is a regular occurrence. Whenever someone even so much as taps upon the glass, a coldness grips you inside and out, and you are often seized by such fear that Sleuth or Ace often get there before you. The insecurities you face on a day to day basis often make you question your career choice, but you know that without you Team Sleuth would not be able to function, and you are recognised and appreciated for what it is you do here (teased and often mocked by your cohorts, of course, but you have learnt to tell the difference between what is harmless and what is not).

Before your body can even regulate your heart rate once more, the knock comes again, a tall slender shape filling the clouded glass that is the window in the door of your shared office with Mr Ace and Mr Sleuth, and you are suddenly filled with a sort of instinctual dread. You cannot explain it. There is something that makes you fear this figure more than anything and for some reason you cannot bring yourself to open the door.

You are alone in this office.

You had just returned from the Brothel, and had stopped off to pick up a few things before you handed your notes over to Sleuth, and the last thing you expected was a visitor at this hour!

The darkness outside seems to creep in through the closed window and you hastily close the blind – probably out of irrational paranoia, but why take that kind of chance when the midnight moon is shining at its highest point in the sky and threatening to scrutinise you with its silver gaze?

Then you hear it again.

Knock.

Like the countdown to your own demise.

Knock.

You try to flatten yourself as much as you can against the office wall, whimpering a little.

Knock.

Fearful eyes glance down at the doorknob which has started to turn and jiggle a little as the figure from the other side tries to enter your temporary sanctuary.......and then turns as though to leave.

When you no longer see that shadow through the cloudy window surface, you allow yourself a long drawn out sigh of relief; shoulders sagging with the weight that terror carries. You raise a hand to wipe the sweat that had beaded upon your brow and suddenly you no longer have a door.

Smashed glass and dust scatters about on the office floor and you instinctively leap back to the wall again, letting out what you know was most definitely NOT the manliest cry you have ever emitted. Your door has literally been kicked off its hinges. There is a black mark directly in the centre of the wood, cracks all over the surface from one very hard and very precise impact, and the hinges are no longer connected to the door frame – which has buckled inwards slightly from the force.

Mute horror overtakes your entire brain and you can only watch as the tall black figure simply lowers its leg – which had been raised as the dust settled – straightens its tie, and steps into your office; lighting a cigarette as it does so and revealing more than just the black shape behind the glass.

Oh.

Begging your pardon.

He.

He lowers his leg with a strange grace like that of a ballet dancer and the stands perfectly straight and composed once more; straightening the white tie that stands out on that prefect tailored suit. His shoes crunch glass into dust underfoot as he lightly, slowly, deliberately steps over what is left of your door. Cigarette smoke curls around his head and starts to fill the air in the office. Your wrinkle your nose and try not to cough too much as he lightly bends down and reaches for the corner of the door with long thin clever pale fingers.

Then the door is slammed back up against the hole it was pulled out of in one swift movement and he finishes off his cigarette and crushes the butt out against the cracked frame around it. The dangerous human being lights another one as he starts to step towards where you are still petrified against the wall.

Eyes like ice seem to spread a freezing terror through your body. He regards you as though he were a cat eyeing prey and every movement just looks so precise and intentional. There is not a single wasted motion. This man is professional with every single shift of his long and powerful limbs, snake-like and cat-like and -

Oh goodness gracious me...

You are not even aware he was speaking until you are asked if you are even listening to him.

When you do find your voice, it is hesitant and obviously filled with terror, but you manage to stutter out, “I...ah...mm....am t-t-terribly sorry...c-could you...ah...r-repeat the question.”

He does not hide his disdain; upper lip curling as though in disgust. Perhaps you missed a particularly effective one liner? Mr Sleuth often gets upset when you miss those due to being lost in your thoughts.

There is a pause, the slightest shift in his posture, and then very slowly – deliberately – he takes a lengthy drag upon his cigarette and blows the smoke in your direction. You are unaware of anything until he steps through the smoke and is glaring at you from right behind your desk.

Both hands press lightly into the surface of it (he looks confused for just a second as he tests the strength of the ply wood and the cinder blocks that you have yet to replace with a real desk, but that confusion is replaced with further disgust shortly) and an Ace of Diamonds is held between two fingers; the card jutting out from his hand like a knife pointed in your direction.

His voice is calm, monotonous, and yet sounds sharp like a steel blade; the razor edge threatening to slide against your throat with every syllable, not a single word wasted, “I said, Mr Inspector...I do believe you have something of mine.”

“Ah.” You think that you know that he knows that you know. There is no point in hiding it. There is a dangerous air about this man and, frankly, you are terrible at bluffing. Any attempt to lie to him would probably reveal to you what that inoculous double – or so you suspect – is. Instead, you try not to choke on your own fear, and that dreadful cigarette smoke, and you softly whimper, “I..ah...I gave it...it...b-b-back to the ladies at the b-brothel.”

Whether that answer is good or bad, you cannot tell. This man (Diamonds Droog. You know who he is. You know what he does. Stop denying it.) has a face like polished marble. You cannot read a single feature of it. There are no flaws. No tells. You may as well try to read the answer to whether he is pleased or not in the stars!

More smoke drifts in your direction. You do not relax for one second.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower than last time, yet just as unreadable as his features. You suspect that the lower in tone is a hint at a drop in his anger, yet you would not even dare to assume anything in the presence of such a dangerous man. Perhaps if you live through this you will record your observations later.

“I see.” Steel blue eyes threaten to stare into your soul and mind; you shiver with the intrusion. Thankfully, he continues, “You thought you could just...steal it and bring it back before I noticed, is that it?”

Muted by fear - and the fact that the muscles in his upper arms just tensed underneath that very well kept suit – all you can do is nod.

“Well.” He says at length, “That was rather foolish of you, was it not?”

You can not reply to that. Not out of fear this time, however. This time you find your head exploding in a shower of stars and pain, a blinding white light flashing across your vision and causing you to suddenly fall to one side. Before you can recover, you feel further pain. Your ribs feel like they are going to tear themselves from your chest, the arm that you raised to defend yourself is suddenly so limb and broken that you can barely register through the pain that he is now standing on it to pin you there.

When your vision clears, you are lay on the ground with blood pouring from your nose and ears, and the world feels like it is underwater. A pool cue is at your throat; forcing your head to look up at him. It is covered in blood and you know very well that it is not his.

There is not a drop of blood on him.

His arms are no longer tense. He looks relaxed, taking a drag of his cigarette as though composing himself. You did not see him lose himself to blood and pain, but you are very much aware that from the way he smooths back his immaculately gelled hair, and adjusts himself once more, that he must have done so.

A calm and collected professional who wounds you in such a way that you can never ever see him lose that balance and composure and rigidity. Were it not for your keen observation skills, you are fairly sure that you would not have known to raise your hand in time had you just been a mere drug addict or someone whom this man double crossed in the street. The sacrifice of your arm was worth it.

He was aiming for your head all four times he hit you.

In a way, you assume, his pause in the attack is his way of being surprised. He did not expect you to recover or to stop him. Your body simply moved on instinct. You are supposed to be dead by now.

“Well, it seems like a warning is all I need to give you, Inspector.” Inside your bloodied haze, you can barely hear him, but the words are there. You weren't aware you were crying at all until this point, but there is most definitely the sound of sobbing coming from somewhere. The pressure is gone from your arm and suddenly the pain floods back to you tenfold. You scream.

The pool cue enters your mouth and gags you.

“Please. Spare me. You are pathetic. You are not even worth killing. To think I feared what would come from your theft. I can see now that nothing was revealed to you. You are a little frightened child playing at detective.”

Your own silence and frail appearance may have just thrown him off the fact that you actually know so much about him.

“Good evening, Inspector. Pray we do not cross paths again.”

Even though red covers your vision, you force yourself, through tears and pain, to watch him leave. Your door is thrown to the floor once more and you are more than aware that there is red pooling from an unseen break in your skin somewhere.

Your arm, your head, your ribs and your spine hurt. You cannot move.

Diamonds Droog just spared your life.

You are fairly sure that this is not a regular occurrence.

You were feeble and stammering. You threw him off your scent. He no longer viewed you as a threat, yet you now had information about him. You had voice patterns, habits, every slight little tell that he did not know he was giving you.

Now all you had to do was hope Sleuth came and found you before the pain had enough time to send you into shock.

You closed your eyes.

Chapter Text

An eternity doesn't seem that long when you consider the amount of time that you lay listening to your own heartbeat slow as the seconds ticked by. In your mind you counted every second and every heartbeat separately, and you know for a fact that you were lay there for exactly one hour, seven minutes, and forty five seconds before the small vibrations in the ground told you that someone was walking towards your office door.

You prayed that Droog hadn't come back to finish the job, until you heard that familiar voice sound in the air – no. Two voices. The two who you know would risk anything to save your life (and in hindsight, they were probably about to).

“Pickles!”

“-ng in there! Ace get the -”

“- t breathin'-”

“- is...he is...he is...”

“- ng on. Please just ha - “

The voices seem so distant amidst all this water flowing through your head. Darkness drifts across your vision and whenever you stare through the blood red haze, you could swear that you were in a different place each time. There are voices all around you as you constantly drift through consciousness, and yet you feel so weightless and lifeless, as though constantly floating on a pool of water.

For a moment, you see the universe before your eyes, reflecting in the surface of a pool, and you reach out to touch a hand that seems to be coming towards you on a sea of stars and galaxies, wondering why the gaze upon you seems so familiar or why that voice telling you to go back to reality matches your own, before you are pulled back into the water once more.

Then the water starts to drain, and you can almost imagine that you are being carried along on a stream, swirling around and around, caught in the path of a waterfall and then falling falling as you –

“Wake up!”

Bright lights and white sterile walls almost blind you as you open your eyes once more and try to focus the blurry edges of your vision. There are voices and lights and people and pain and -

“Hey! Hey, Pickles! Hey!”

Mr Sleuth.

You would be filled with utter relief were your bones not aching so. One of your eyes remains somewhere on the side of blurry and unfocused, but you are filled with sheer relief that you are here, you are alive, and you did not wake up alone in a hospital bed. Instead you woke up with the faces of concerned friends peering over you, fussing to be the first to touch you, as though checking you are still really there and not just some apparition in guise as Pickle Inspector.

The doctor is talking quietly to Nervous Broad as everyone frets and fusses over you. Sleuth is grinning widely, the usual act of self confidence oozing from him, but you can see the terror and concern that were once within his eyes. He looks like he has not slept in days. Tired and stressed.

“Welcome back to the world of the living! We really thought we had lost you.”

That look in his eyes does not suit him. You decide this quickly, and offer what you hope is a smile. It pains you to do so, but you think he gets the message. He should no longer worry. You are safe.

You open your mouth to say this, but he shakes his head and cuts you off. His voice is still chipper as always, but there is a certain gentleness that only Sleuth could manage at that volume, “Nah. Don't say nothin'. You were right. I shouldn't'a let ya investigate that damned snake alone. He could'a killed ya, Pickles, an' then where would we be? Down a tactician, that's fer sure.”

He removes that dusty looking, yellowed with age, trilby from atop his head and sighs. One hand brushes through sandy blonde hair, and stops at his chin, running calloused fingers over his unshaven visage. Those grey eyes look so dull in this moment, so aware of the world and all of its flaws, as though your near-death was a wake up call that shook him to the very centre of his soul. The sheer gravity of the situation sits heavily upon his shoulders like a permanent reminder of what had passed, and this makes your cocky, arrogant, and self-centred leader seem simultaneously older and somehow wiser for its presence there. The smirk he manages lacks the sheer conviction that it normally has.

“Me an' Ace found out what the situation was; how the crew had been getting' around an' such.” He's doing that thing with his hands that he normally does when he is desperate for a cigarette, massaging each finger between forefinger and thumb, picking his nails. He is in a hospital, of course, and although you can't say you sympathise, you certainly know what a good smoke means to him considering you've been absent-mindedly wondering when your next cup of tea is going to end up in your hands. You have a horrible feeling that this hospital cannot cater to your precise needs exactly, and – oh, Mr Sleuth is still talking.

“Turns out that no matter how much diggin' we both do, we can't trace the crew's presence back any further than six months. S'like they appeared outta nowhere alluva sudden. Droog was their big money maker. Guy managed ta target a millionaire in the street. Stole everythin' the good Lord GPI gave him an' set himself up real cosy in a casino downtown. Only showed himself on any documents two months ago. We got word that Boxcars an' Deuce were workin' in a greasy spoon for some minimum cash dead on six months ago, an' Slick only appeared on the radar four months back. Either way, these mobsters are dangerous an' they clearly mean ta make a name fer themselves. I don't think any of us should go after these assholes on our own.”

When Sleuth chews his lip, it makes him seem so guilty all of a sudden, or perhaps embarrassed? You cock your head quizzically and prompt him to continue as he shakes his head. “We wouldn't'a found ya if it weren't fer Mr-Sharp-an'-Pointy-Stabby-Pants givin' me a hint as to what his bosom buddy slash comrade in arms was up to. Slick's got a mouth on him the size of an interstate free-way and with just as much traffic. You're real lucky. Droog did a real professional job. Your office looks like a hurricane of weasels passed through it an' decided ta invite all'a their friends and family. GPI must have decided that it wasn't your time just yet.”

You cannot say you disagree.

The afternoon - or was it evening? - passes without any incident. Sleuth and Ace stay with you for as long as both Sleuth's nicotine addiction and the nurses' patience lasts. Dame and Broad are both there by the end of the day, and at some point Broad even manages to sneak you in some camomile tea to calm your nerves. You are not sure if there is actually a law prohibiting the trafficking of tea within a city hospital, but you are thankful that the nurses do not pick you up on it for the duration of your stay there.

It is well within to your fourth day in hospital when you receive another visitor to your small private room.

The nurses tell you that you have a visitor and you decide that you are not going to face either Mr Ace or Mr Sleuth wearing that horrible hospital gown again. You quickly dress yourself in one of the shirts that Broad and Dame packed for you in your hospital stay kit, and pull on a pair of loose fitting trousers – not that you are specific about how one's trousers should fit; most sizes are too big on you regardless of whichever ones the ladies bring you on a whim during one of their shopping trips. Mr Sleuth often comments that they do not sell clothes for sticks and twigs in most normal shopping malls.

You glance up with your camomile tea in hand as the door opens...and then promptly drop it and watch in almost slow motion as both cup and saucer crash to the floor at your feet.

This time you are aware that it was not your own feeble hands, or your known habit of fumbling virtually anything and everything, that caused you to do so.

You're more than aware that the sight of Diamonds Droog himself slinking into your hospital room, dressed in his usual smart suit, with his usual air of importance, is what caused you to slip up...

Chapter Text

If you'd have still been plugged into the heart monitor, you are pretty sure you would have flat lined by now. It is a curious thing being a detective with an overt paranoia and fear of everything outside your office door, and it certainly makes life hard at times when Mr Sleuth or Mr Ace are not present, but that aside – and staring at the man in front of you – you are pretty sure that not all of your fears were completely irrational.

You'd shut yourself in your office once upon a time to keep men like this out, but in a hospital and away from your own comforts, you have no authority on who comes into your room. At least...you don't think you do? Is there a law against random mobsters entering one's hospital accommodation? You're pretty sure if there was one, you would know of it, but then again you have never been the sort to pay much attention to what goes on in the health service.

Either way, hospital safety aside, you suddenly become aware that Diamonds Droog has yet to say anything whatsoever.

By now, you have wasted approximately five minutes (probably more like two; you definitely counted two) ogling him like he was going to be the last thing you would ever see in this moment (you suspect you are half right on this) and he has yet to even open his mouth, or strike you down, or...do anything really.

He looks bored.

Pristine in his appearance as always, of course, moving only to smooth back his oh-so-neatly swept back hair, but definitely getting bored of you keeping your thought processes to yourself. His eyes are burning into you as always, expecting you to move, to cry out, to react in some way, shape, or form to him, and when you fail to do so, he sighs impatiently.

“You dropped your tea, Mr Inspector. I suggest you would clean up such a mess before the nurses come in. They would be most upset that your hands are so feeble that you cannot perform such a simple task as holding a cup and saucer.” When he speaks, he speaks at length, making sure each word is clear and understood, so for a moment you just blink at him, trying to register any hidden meaning behind those words, before your wide eyes fall upon the floor.

You were terribly thankful for Dame and Broad bringing you your favourite tea set to you in the hospital. It was that beautifully patterned white and light blue one, the one with the wispy strokes of blue up and down the side of each teacup, saucer, and the pot itself, and with soft tiny intricate flowers dotted here and there along each of these blue wisps. Now one of the cups had a slight chip on the side and a plate that was shattered clean in two thanks to your own clumsy hands, and you feel a certain sadness welling up within you, almost as though you were mourning it. Not only that, but the tea is spilled on the floor, and that was one of your favourite blends and -

Is Mr Droog laughing?

Not in the conventional manner, no, but there certainly was a dark chuckle coming from somewhere not two seconds ago, and when you look up, he is smirking horribly.

“Thought so. Your mind is almost like a sieve. I give you one thing to look at, and you immediately begin to over analyse it. You observe things in such detail, Inspector, yet you cannot switch off that little brain of yours.” You ogle more so, and he takes this as his cue to step closer, adjusting his tie as he simply states, “You're a hard man to kill, Mr Inspector.”

At these words, panic floods through your every sense and makes you involuntarily take a step back. You're only aware that you're shaking when you reach back to the small table in your room to grab a cloth to clean the mess up with. Droog stops his advance almost in the same instant that he began it, making it seem as though he has not moved at all. One hand removes itself from his pocket to gesture lightly at the mess in front of you.

“Please. Do continue. I shouldn't like to step into a room with such a...mess on the floor.”

You are loathe to reveal the back of your head to this man in any manner, but when he does not move for what feels like an eternity, you slowly stoop down in front of him and lightly pick up the remains of your early morning tea. The cloth is placed into the bin, and the pieces of your cup and saucer are placed on the small table top so that you might either fix or dispose of them later (you decide to definitely fix it later so that you can have a full set of four cups and four saucers; odd numbers make you squirm).

It is then that Diamonds Droog sweeps past you in one swift motion and seats himself in the guest chair situated opposite your bed, pausing only to wipe off a few specks of dust (could have been sandwich crumbs from when Mr Sleuth joined you for lunch yesterday). His arms remain folded, his back remains upright, and his posture is perfect at all times. That one hand he seems to use for gesturing purposes (his dominant hand his dominant hand Diamonds Droog is left handed) motions towards the chair directly next to the bed. “Please. Do seat yourself. We have much to discuss.”

You obey.

Even though every little fibre of your being screams at you to deny this man of what he wants, you still obey his command because it is simply the polite thing to do. You seat yourself, without your tea, and in front of the last person on Earth you would rather entertain in hospital, and you finally speak.

Your voice is shaky, but you manage out a soft accusatory whisper, “You...tried to kill me.”

He gives a soft exhale of breath that could have been a laugh, “Of course.”

You are almost hesitant to ask, but you manage it somehow, “Why?”

There is another sigh. Almost bored. Diamonds Droog leans on his hand and regards you with an unreadable expression, “It's what I do, Inspector. Besides, you started to follow me. You stole my wallet. You decided it was wise to snoop into a known mobster's life.”

Somehow, you didn't expect him to turn around the blame onto you. You open your mouth to violently protest, but somehow common sense suddenly makes you aware of the fact that the minute he sat down he was demonstrating the power of his mind and how it works. He is obviously expecting the same of you. He wants you to show him that you are capable of being one of the men to investigate the Midnight Crew.

For some reason, you do not want to disappoint, so you sit up straight in your chair and cough politely, “Begging your pardon, Mr Diamonds Droog, and I do apologise if this is reminiscent of passing the blame, but I do believe that your Crew blew up the bank first. Were it not for the unusual nature of your case, Team Sleuth would not have been called in to -”

He lets out a soft noise, almost like a scoff at your words, and interrupts you before you can finish rambling. You think of him as suddenly very rude, and that gets what little temper you have flaring. You do not think highly of people who are downright rude. You assumed he was suave and sophisticated, but that fails to impress you once you see how rude he is!

You idly toy with your fingers as he speaks down to you in a very rude manner, “Please. Spare me the lecture. I know who you are, Inspector. I know why you were called to investigate this case, and I certainly know why 'Team Sleuth' (he spits out the name like it disgusts him to use it) are 'on our case'; if that's how you would like to refer to it.”

“Then why are you here?” The words blurt out from your lips before you can stop them. The hairs on your neck bristle, and your wounds ache somewhat as though in memory, but you cannot stop yourself from practically spitting out, “Ah-are you here to finish the job? To test me? I f-fear you are wasting your time, Mr Droog. If you already know so much about me, th-then why am I still breathing?”

Silence stretches out once more between you. Diamonds Droog then let's out that unnatural chuckle once more, “It would seem I have offended you, Inspector. Clearly the mouse has a lion's bite when he wishes to do so. Please, calm yourself. My intention was not murder this time, nor was it to offend someone who I pray will show me his skills on the field to prove himself to me.”

The words sound so alien in your head, “P-Prove to you? What do I...have to prove to you...?”

It is then that he is in front of you before you can react, his palms pressed into the arms of your chair, eyes fixing you with a hateful glare. When he speaks, venom drips from his every word, “Let me make myself perfectly clear, Inspector. You should be dead, and yet despite me allowing myself to lose my composure in bringing you to your most perfect demise, you are still here. Not only that, but you have shown that you are not completely incompetent. You know things, you think things, and you say things to that insufferable bastard Problem Sleuth and his little loose cannon Ace Dick that makes my job incredibly difficult.”

There is nought but pure hatred in his eyes as he pins you there, keeping you frozen in that gaze like a rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming truck, “If you think that you are my equal to the point where you truly believe you are worthy to track me, investigate me, and dig up whatever dirt you think you can find, then prove it to me on the field.”

Before you can utter a response to this outburst, his wallet is placed in front of your eyes, as though proof of his convictions. You are shocked to see that the small hidden panel is out of place, and he is glaring at you as though you are the problem. “You know things that no man should know about me. My name for one. No one would have spotted what you spotted. No one would even think to. Your mind is as dangerous as mind when it wants to be, Inspector. You know it. I know it. This (he gestures to the wallet angrily, shaking it as he does so) THIS was a challenge to me, and I am merely here to say to you that your challenge is accepted whether your little weak mind can process whether you made one or not, so watch...your...back.”

You are...startled to say the least, but part of you feels a swell of pride that you, the feeble little inspector who rarely puts a foot out of line, managed to irritate a man who is slowly beginning to make a name for himself as one of the most dangerous mobsters the world has ever seen. You did this. You got under his skin and managed to make him nearly lose that composure that he prides himself on so dearly.

He is furious.

Even though he tries so hard not to show it, you can see it, and it makes you fearful of your life, yet at the same time fills you with a new strength that makes you twice as determined to live up to what Diamonds Droog expects of you.

When he has finished his outburst, he sighs to himself, and straightens up once more. Instead of leaving as you'd hoped, however, he immediately goes and sits back in his chair, and gestures at you in a manner that you cannot read.

“So,” He sighs at length, “I hear you like tea.”

You almost cannot believe what you are hearing.

“Um...y-yes. I...ah...I believe tea is something of a hobby of mine. I try to collect various teas from around the world and try them. I even mix up some of my own -” Before you can finish, you are cut off once more.

Rude.

“Spare me. I know what it is you do in your private time. I have had plenty of information come back to me on that.” He stares out at the window as though either debating throwing you through it or merely opening it, (it could be either of the options) two of his fingers twitching somewhat. You watch this motion, note his agitation, and then observe him pass a hand through his hair once again. “Make me some. I know you have some here. Show me one these skills of yours. See if you can impress me. The caffeine might make me less likely to murder you horribly for even thinking you can be my equal.”

The penny drops, suddenly and without warning.

He's not allowed to smoke in the hospital, and without his cigarettes constantly at the ready, he's agitated and irrational and...almost dependant on nicotine or caffeine.

You stand somewhat shakily and nod, “Is...is camomile all right?”

A dismissive hand gesture. No response this time.

As you make your way over to the small area where you keep your teas, you find that natural nervousness of yours growing somewhat. Diamonds Droog is dangerous when he is this agitated. He was probably in a state similar to this when he tried to end your life, when his natural instinct as a consummate professional made him enraged to think that you had managed to somewhat out do him, and the unnerving, terrifying, and frightening (and a whole bunch of other words that mean the same thing) thought occurs to you that he could become enraged once more if provoked.

You bite your lip as you prepare the tea and try not to think about the ever looming threat of a pool cue, knife, or gun to the back of the head whilst you work.

Surprisingly, this does not come, and you manage to prepare a tray of tea for the pair of you without needing further hospital assistance.

Droog almost looks down his nose at the very nicely laid out display on the tray in front of him, and yet when he sees the tea brewing in the kettle, he seems to hold himself back from passing comment on it.

You sit down in the chair across the room from him for a moment until he shakes his head. “No.”

Your head cocks to one side, “No? Is...is there something wrong?”

One cruel long finger motions directly opposite him, on the other side of the table. “Stand up.”

You are unable to stop yourself from shaking as you obey the command, and then suddenly he is there in front of you, walking past you, and pulling the chair from your bedside to the table. Right where he can see you. He stands behind the chair, shock still, like a statue, as he inclines his head towards the chair. “I cannot have you moving this in...your condition.”

Every word is so precise, chosen for the effect intended (probably the effect gained as well), and you find yourself softly sliding into the seat as though almost ashamed. He tucks the chair in behind you like a waiter at a restaurant, and then sits opposite you, sitting his his hands in his lap, “Now then. We can have tea together, can we not? Let us...familiarise ourselves with each other somewhat. I do believe that you and I are capable of enjoying a little tea together without pretending to be enemies, are we not?”

When he says pretending, you have to stop yourself from correcting him with the fact that you are enemies, but you bite the inside of your cheek and watch the small timer next to your teapot count down for the appropriate brewing time for the camomile, praying inwardly that you will survive the next two minutes...

Chapter Text

Your name is Pickle Inspector.

You do not make it a habit of having tea with incredibly dangerous mobsters, but it seems that you did not have a choice in this matter, and it seems as though Diamonds Droog is not about to leave until he has finished what he came here to do.

Or to talk about, as he claims.

You have poured the tea out into the cups by this point, and have sat back into the chair he pulled up for you (how gentlemanly you suppose?) with a cup of tea and a saucer in your trembling hands. Diamonds Droog has yet to take a sip from his cup and instead sits with it at his fingertips on the arm of his chair; long fingers running over the smooth surface of the saucer as though memorising every inch of the pattern.

“Tell me about 'Team Sleuth'.” Droog's voice is sharp and jarring, even when foreseen, that it causes you to jump slightly whenever he speaks. The tone of his voice gives away nothing as to what he's thinking.

Gathering intelligence or just merely making small talk?

Part of you assumes that this is still one of his 'tests'. He wants you to spill all those dirty little secrets and talk (stammer) your way through every detail regarding both yourself and your team. You mentally vow to never be pulled in by a seemingly harmless suggestion.

There is a moment of silence whilst you take a sip of camomile tea and respond with an almost inaudible, “What is there to say?”

The mobster's fingers twitch. Diamonds Droog strikes you as the sort of man to have an ever-present cigarette during small talk like this. His lack of a cigarette makes every glance in your direction comparable to the look of someone who wishes to relieve his tension by breaking a few more of your ribs. Instead, thankfully, he neatly picks up the small teacup and takes in the scent of the camomile before his steel grey eyes focus straight on you, “Boxcars told me that your short little fat friend followed him into the brothel on the exact same night you so happened to end up with my wallet in your hands. The Mistresses of the brothel were certainly familiar with your faces. Are you detectives in cahoots with those ladies?”

You recall shaking your head, fear starting to gnaw at your chest, a ripple of pain shooting through you when you move in a way that disagrees with the sorry state of your body, “N...no. Of course not.”

“Tch. Liar.” Droog sips on the tea and looks mildly surprised for a second, one eyebrow raising somewhat, and then softly places the cup on the saucer once more, “You and him were allowed in the office; no questions asked. You were coming out of it as I was leaving on that night you managed to pick my pocket, and you spent a few more minutes there even after I had left. Not only that, but that Ace of yours seemed to be familiar with them according to Boxcars.”

Fear for one's friends can be a powerful thing. Just the thing your brain needed to jump start itself into some form of order, and respond before the mobster could even call you out on thinking too hard about his accusations. You were not about to let Dame and Broad be swept up in this damned underworld war.

“Of course we are familiar. D-detectives work with b-brothel owners when we are tailing people. Ace knows them...because he used to be their regular. They owed us some f-favours, so Ace called them out on them.” The lie is almost perfect until Droog leans back and sips on his tea, looking more relaxed than he was before.

“So you would not mind if we burnt that brothel to the ground at all?” Panic wells up inside you at his words. He gazes at you, goading you into responding, calling you out on your lie.

You decide to keep calm and drink camomile, the flavour allowing a precious moment of thought to come to you.

“I dare say, is the Mm..Midnight Crew so low as to burn a famous brothel be-because the owners allowed two detectives to spy on mm-mobsters? I think Mr Ace would miss it. As would that tall fellow of yours – Boxcars, was it? He seemed to like the brothel. As d-did yourself.” You're trying to calm your beating heart as you say this to him, your heartbeat making itself known within your chest, sounding like the countdown to your own death at the hands of this man. You know that everything you just said could be interpreted as rudeness, perhaps even cockiness, and you have already been punished enough by this man for merely existing.

Panic makes you think faster, yet inherently manages to make the most random thoughts occur to you at the most inappropriate times.

Like now, when you are supposed to be looking out for the well-being of your two favourite girls, and all you can think about is the fact that your eyes witnessed Diamonds Droog half naked at a brothel being pleasured by the hookers there. Your mind almost feels like it is about to shut down completely.

You wonder if speaking too quickly confirmed that you were making en excuse.

Luckily, you do not think he noticed this. He seems preoccupied with his tea. When he speaks again, he merely changes the subject, as though he has become bored of the conversation (you secretly know it is because he cannot get you to admit to your friendship with Dame and Broad, and the thought is like a small victory for you). “Even I have to admit, you have some talent with tea, Mr Inspector. I am not normally one to indulge in teas. This camomile, however, has been brewed perfectly. Perhaps you are not completely useless after all.”

It goes on like this for the entire time he is there.

Diamonds Droog steers the conversation into the directions he prefers, occasionally following it with some form of remark about your mannerisms, your appearance, your personal habits, and at one point even your stutter! You spend that entire time biting down on your lip to refrain from saying something you know you would regret later. The whole while he remains in charge, in perfect control, and you merely allow him to lead you into whatever topics he would prefer. You're not a natural born leader by any means so following the conversation at hand is second nature to you.

You would never be so rude as to interrupt him mid-conversation any way (not that he gives you a pause to even interject in, but still, the consideration is there).

There are several moments of tension, where you fear that his lack of nicotine will lead him to utterly destroy you there and then, but somehow, by the time the nurses come in to tell you that visiting time is over, you are still alive. From their point of view, you have literally been sat there chatting away nicely over a pot of tea, but both you and Droog know the reality.

The mobster stands, adjusting himself, allowing his entire body to fall back into that state of dangerous grace that seems to come to him naturally, and then turns to give you a final glance over with his gaze of cold steel. You squirm a little in your chair, tugging on the sleeves of your shirt nervously, curling and balling the material in your fists due to the nervousness that Droog instils within you. Every second he is silent feels like another piece of your nerve crumbling before him.

“Well, I would like to tell you that this has been enlightening, but it has merely raised more questions within my mind, Inspector.” Diamonds Droog seems thoughtful and, for a moment, you are almost stunned by this. His expression remains as unreadable as ever, but you feel as though that statement left so many cracks in his defences that you cannot resist lowering your own to take a risky glance into what twisted psyche this man may possess.

You feel somewhat satisfied to have survived this encounter. A musing of whether to treat yourself to another pot of camomile after this encounter leaves your mind wandering.

So much so that you barely have time to register the Ace of Diamonds sliding from within the sleeve of his jacket before the pool cue slams into your ribs with enough force to make you throw up all of today's lunch, and fall from the comfort of your chair and onto the cold hospital flooring. Winded, dazed, confused, you barely hear his voice at the back of your mind, filtering through a sea of pain, “Consider that a warning of things to come.”

He mumbles something else, something that you have incredible trouble processing for the moment, and then opens the door to your room and leaves you there on the floor with blood and vomit starting to drip from your nose and mouth, and additional fractured ribs to add to your collection.

As the door clicks shut, allowing him to escape before the nurses return to give you your nightly meds, the words you heard translate into something that seems to freeze your blood and send a wave of panic straight to your heart.

“You're a marked man, Inspector. You won't die by anyone's hand but mine.”

Chapter Text

Days and weeks melt into one incomprehensible blur.

Diamonds Droog does not visit you in this time (you're glad of this) and you are very quick (nervous) to make a full recovery. After your visit to the hospital floor many moons ago, with the blood and pain and...you get the idea...but after that particular incident, Mr Sleuth kept a restless vigil by your bed side. There have only been a few instances where you have seen him indulge himself in the complete loss of self control. This surely counted as one of them.

When you had come round, it had been to the sound of crying, shouting, and the occasional threat from both sides of the argument. It is hard to threaten to call the police on Problem Sleuth. He often has about twelve different forms of blackmail on the doctors present. They were arguing over everything that Sleuth could bring up: lack of security, no comprehension of who was dangerous and who wasn't, lacklustre nurses who didn't so much as bat an eyelid as the damn mobster had walked into the place like he owned it, etc. Doctors, nurses, Dame, and Sleuth had argued everything and anything that they could think of. At one point, the argument looked as though it was about to escalate out of control until Sleuth had glanced in your direction, seen you awake and utterly miserable and -

“Pickles!” Relief had flooded Sleuth's voice and you felt a little guilty. Not because you had worried him, but because you had ultimately failed him in the goal you had set out to accomplish. Not a single bit of worthwhile intelligence had been gathered and all you had gotten out of your meeting were broken ribs, a death threat, and a backhanded compliment on some well made tea. You had cried then and had not stopped until you shamefully blurted out every single detail of your encounter. It had not come out in a way that had made sense and you were terrified that Sleuth was going to press you further until...you looked up and truly took in the expression that he wore.

The look on Sleuth's face could have only been sadness.

“Hey...c'mon...you think I'm bothered about that? Pickles, chasin' those goons is not worth...this!” A gesture to your battered and bruised frame was all he could muster. Sleuth may have has a thousand ways of talking his way out of a situation, but this was certainly one of those moments where he had fallen short of them. His hands were warm as he took one of your own trembling wrists within them, “Pickles...I want you to recover, y'hear me? I want you well in both mind and body. I ain't gonna chase a single one of those...those...damned mobsters until you're fightin' fit. Ain't nothin' you can do to persuade me otherwise. Please...”

Green eyes softened. You remember the concern on his face. Problem Sleuth had suddenly looked so old in front of you. Concern and the lack of sleep had aged him in that moment and you would never forget it. His grip was comforting in an equal amount as it was concerned.

His voice had trembled and it had broken your will and your heart, “Pickles...please get better. Please forget them. I'll be stayin' right here. The quacks have given me a room to stay in. Me an' Ace are gonna take turns here. We ain't leavin' you. Not until you're well again.”

You cried again.

When you had finished with your tears – and oh goodness Sleuth was patient as you managed to squeeze what felt like every last drop out of your eyes – you had recounted with a little more determination and a lot more coherence what had happened the previous evening. Dutifully, Sleuth had taken down every single detail, had nodded when it seemed appropriate, and had not once pressured you into continuing until you were ready to do so.

Just getting it off your mind and your chest had helped with the healing process; mentally of course.

Since then, nothing out of the ordinary had happened. A few nightmares may have shaken you from your sleep a few times (darkness and the suited man and oh god he was going to kill you and choke you and you suddenly couldn't breathe and it was getting darker and) but other than that, both news and ward were Midnight Crew free. Ribs had healed, pain had lessened into nothing, and soon you were taking your first shaky steps onto the city streets once more. Sleuth had walked side-by-side with you to the office, yammering on excitedly about current events (leaving out any mention of the Crew you noticed), and about how happy he was to see you back on your feet. His eyes were animated and his hands unable to keep themselves from applying gesture to spoken word. He certainly looked younger than he had done all those weeks ago. You thanked GPI every single day since then for the friends you had been blessed with.

When you had both entered the office, you had been very surprised to find it tidy, and had also been assaulted by Dame and Broad as they had both taken you into simultaneous gentle and rough embraces. A crudely painted 'WELCOME HOME' sign had been hung up to the light fittings (was it drawn on a bed sheet?) and balloons, flowers, and tasty looking treats had been set out on the clear surface that was your desk (before you could panic about your organised chaos of paper work vanishing, Sleuth had nudged you in the direction of a box wherein he and Ace had 'deposited' all the stacks of documents).

Time moved on slowly.

Routine was re-established. Peace returned to your mind. The nightmares stopped all together. You were back on the cases, your desk returning to its state of organised chaos with stacks of papers that towered over Ace's head, and things truly felt like they were getting closer to what constituted as normality in your office.

Eventually, albeit with a cautious air, all three of you had sat down and had agreed to reopen the Midnight Crew files. Ace had shown that he was more than eager to get back into the fray, Sleuth had lowered his hat and had posed in what had succeeded as a dramatic fashion, and you...

You were ready and your mind was keen.

Of course, you were required (not by law, but by Sleuth) to take twice as many breaks during this time. You still trembled whenever Droog's name was mentioned or his photo slipped onto your desk.

Which brings you here, to the most delightful little tea shop in town, with the most delightful waitresses, and the freshest tea, and the most beautiful home-made and hand-decorated cakes. It also marks the seventy-first day of Midnight Crew inactivity and you are well and truly starting to feel good about yourself again. The cake you order is double layered and covered in cream, the scones are baked to perfection and are so warm and fluffy inside, and the clotted cream and jam tastes as though it has literally been created mere minutes ago in the back of the cafe somewhere.

Yes. A very very good day.

You are scanning the latest sudoku puzzles in the newspaper – you don't take work out of the office - when someone else enters the cafe. Not unusual in itself. It seems to be a very busy day for them; the door has chimed several times prior to this. No, what strikes you as unusual is an oh-so-familiar voice that seems to drip down the counter like an oil spill, infecting and poisoning every surface it touches. The voice that orders a coffee (black, strong) and seems to purposely muse over cakes and treats that his has literally zero interest in as though attempting to goad you into glancing up.

You try to keep your eyes down, head in the paper, nerves in check, and you almost manage it. Really. You do. Until a long fingered hand grips your shoulder and squeezes in a manner that almost seems to scream 'I am here. Notice me or I'll put you back in the hospital where you belong, dog.'

Only then do you glance up and (oh GPI no no no no no no he's here to kill me and he said it would happen and help me please someone help me) see that Diamonds Droog is stood right next to you with a cup of coffee.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Diamonds Droog can do two things that no other person alive can do. Firstly, he can make a question sound like an unspoken imperative. You know that there really is a zero percent chance of refusing and surviving at the same time so you numbly nod in his direction. Secondly, he can make a cup of coffee look like the most deadliest weapon in the universe simply by holding it next to you – or in front of you once he is sat down – and looking at you in the way that a cat might eye up a helpless baby bird or a trapped mouse.

Right now, that is an accurate portrayal of exactly how you feel...

Chapter Text

He wants you to speak the first words.

Now that he is comfortably seated, and his threat has carried the gravity of the situation to rest on your shoulders, he merely flicks open his own newspaper and starts to scan it with a clearly disinterested air. Bright blue orbs are fixated upon the threatening frame of the mobster in black. Sandpaper seems to fill your mouth. Tea is hastily sipped with trembling hands almost spilling the precious liquid as the two of you just sit in silence.

The deafening roar of the café overwhelms as much as it does confuse the senses, yet the sound of that silence seems to crawl into your ears and nestle there as though to drown out all other distractions. Hands tremble even more so.

How long have you been sat there?

Droog turns a page. You haven’t noticed any other pages being turned until this one. The noise is reminiscent of the cracking of bone (you imagine) or the cocking of a pistol or -

“May I buy you a cup of tea?” His voice is jarring and painful like a bullet to your very core.

“Huh?” Did he even speak then? If it were not for that searing burning gaze that now sets your skin ablaze, you would have not been sure. Those ice cold eyes roll as though he is debating ending your pathetic miserable existence then and there. A cigarette is placed between his lips, which suddenly look far too red for his tan skin, and lit with little effort. The lighter is very fancy in design: flip top, engraved with his initials, depicting a bold Ace of Diamonds crossed with two pool cues, and contrasted with the rich swirls and flicks of a damask-reminiscent pattern.

You spend so much time ogling the customised lighter, that you almost miss his voice once again. Well, no. That’s not true is it? You would always listen to him. You had to. There was no other choice. The minute his throat hums with the very hint of words, your eyes are upon him in an instant. Attentive. Waiting. Responsive.

As much as his intention is for you to break first, it seems like he has grown bored of your little game, and has taken it upon himself to talk.

“May I buy you a cup of tea?” It is only now that you notice that his voice is not completely monotonous as you remembered. There is a hint of humour in there coupled with an unspoken threat. His voice carries danger and promises pain. Yet…there is something else there. Something you cannot – won’t – place.

“I…er…well…I h-have…”

One hand reaches out and grasps over the teacup in your own. His thumb touches your skin and it burns like he oozes poison through his very pores. A lengthy sigh and a movement, a mere gesture, of his hand disarms you of your lifeline. You haven’t even noticed that you are shaking so much until he takes the cup away. All ten of your digits tremble with fear. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You are not even able to protest.

“No.” He murmurs. His head shakes as though he lamenting on your stupidity. “No, Inspector. You finished that cup about ten minutes ago. Spilled some of it too. Such a shame. I will get you another. One assumes camomile? Of course.”

Diamonds Droog isn’t asking a third time, you notice, and you are forced to accept that you are going to be reminded of that day in the hospital. Context? Well, you have not dared to touch camomile tea in the past few recovery months. The smell of it turns to blood and pain in your nostrils, chokes your memory, and snares your senses. It reminds you of him and now he’s reminding you of his presence and you are going to faint.

Except you really aren’t but you wish you would.

Already you are looking at the door. A possible escape route. The bathroom? The streets? Would he follow? Would you escape? The waitresses take his order and smile oh so happily at him because they really do not know the wolf that lurks beneath the clothing of a sheep (a black sheep at that) and…you need to calm down. Now. Before something bad really happens. Before people die and you are crushed beneath his heel.

“Here.” The smell is overpowering. Already your ribs give a dull throb as though they too can remember the pain. Camomile was once your favourite tea, intended to relax your weary bones, but now it clings to the scent of death. Droog takes his seat once more and sips his coffee. The way he’s watching you makes you wonder if he intends to see the effects upon you first hand. The taste makes you feel sick. Even your stomach protests against any reminder of him. Still, you drink, lamenting the loss of your favourite tea. He sips his coffee, newspaper discarded in favour of locking those cold eyes upon you.

The silence is deafening.

“I’ve been reading your file.” The statement is sudden, and it comes without warning, so much so that you nearly drop the cup in your hands. For a start, you weren’t aware you even had a file. It is simply incredible how much documentation you can get on the streets. Not only that, but it makes sense too: you’re a very successful detective so you’re bound to have people looking out for you. When you manage to search Droog’s face to see if he is going to continue, he merely sighs and reaches down to pat a briefcase that you literally only just noticed he had been carrying.

“…Oh?” A noise of acknowledgement. Besides, you’re pretty sure that a lack of noise would convince Droog that he has terrified you forever (he has). The way he’s looking at you is so smug and self-satisfied that it…

It actually makes you a little angry.

Clearly, he is mocking you. Everything he has done has been to push at you and test you and now that you are recovered, he’s going to repeat the process again and again until he breaks you. You’re no stranger to anger – you can certainly give a mean middle finger when prompted to – but it is very unfamiliar to you. It happens so suddenly that you are forced to put your tea cup down lest you throw it at him. He has ruined your memory of the job, ruined the scent of your favourite tea, and now he intends to ruin your position by bragging about his own research on you, and it makes your blood boil.

“So you...ah…admit that I am interesting enough to…um…research?” Steeling your resolve is the best plan of action for you at present. Recover and move on. Curiosity led your way before that incident so long ago; it is time you started doing your job when Droog inevitably tracks you down. Experience points acquired through many cases have never gone into sass, but my word it is never too late to start expanding your mastery trees.

Taking a long trembling deep breath – this time shuddering through your own naturally jumpy and stammering nerves - you stare long and hard at him and try to spot the cracks in his impossibly perfect psyche.

He’s had plenty of time to tear you down and rip apart all of your armour. Now is your time to really think things through. This is going to keep happening and happening until one of you snaps – Droog has already snapped twice. Why else would he have hurt you? Because you’re a threat. That’s why. He’s scared because you notice things that normal people wouldn’t (well, you doubt he’s actually scared, but it helps to think of his violence as a reaction of fear; perhaps to justify them somewhat).

Knowing this enables you to notice the slight twitch at the corners of his mouth which you would have missed if you had hung your head low like a wounded dog. Amusement or anger? You’re probably about to find out. Besides, you’re fairly sure that he wouldn’t dare damage his social reputation by attacking you in the middle of a busy café.

…probably.

“Tch.” Clicking his teeth as he often does, Droog leans back and regards you with all the venom and bitterness of a cynic, “Hardly. I am fairly sure that even a stuttering and stammering trembling waif like yourself has heard of the advantages behind knowing thy enemy.”

A cigarette hangs from his lips as he lights it. A shift in his position tells you that he is getting comfortable for what promises to be a long haul. Smoke curls around his head as he removes his hat and sets it on the table, one hand adjusting a few stray strands of jet black hair, and -

It suddenly occurs to you, in a casual and relaxed atmosphere where you feel at ease and open minded and ready to think, that Diamonds Droog is impossibly handsome. That slicked back hair is not quite as black as it appears. In the light of a bright and open café you notice the slight peppering of grey and white behind the ears. He wears his age well. Everything about his oozes sophistication and professionalism. Suddenly, you’re self-conscious and you have no idea why. Perhaps it’s the un-ironed coat or your gangly and haggard frame next to his own?

Don’t dwell on it.

No, seriously, don’t.

“O-of course.” Gently trailing long fingers over the ridges of the pattern on the teacup, you try to choke down nervousness, and engage him in conversation. By showing that you’re not completely stunned into silence now, you’re hoping that you can do some digging, “Wh-why do you think I was f-following you in the first place?”

You’ve heard him laugh before, but the sound is still alien to you. Amusement burns in his gaze like fire. Dangerous. “It seems that my little waif is attempting to convince me that he has even the smallest semblance of confidence.”

This game clearly becomes more interesting to him. Elbows rest on the table as he locks his long fingers together in front of him. Posture straight. Eyes reflecting his own dark humour. You realise that his intention to draw words from you has been fulfilled and now he really is keen on keeping you talking, “So tell me, Inspector: how exactly does one achieve both a perfect record in sniping and yet kills no one?”

Hardly a riddle. Now you can’t help but be impressed that he has dug so deeply into the foundations that surround the doors of your history. Your voice wavers, “I…ah. Well, nnnot that you would understand, b-but as a detective, I w-would mmmuch rather bring criminals in alive than dead. A b-bullet wound to the shoulder or the leg is v-very mmmuch effective at incapacitating someone.”

Again, that dark chuckle, “You are correct. I would not know anything about that. I have only ever killed as opposed to wounded. Well...aside from...yourself.”

No Sir, he does not like admitting that one bit. Bitter like the coffee he sips. You do not so much as utter a word about that. You're not an idiot after all. Instead, he turns to other matters with a dismissive wave of his hand, “So, you are claiming that your aim is perfect? Despite this?”

He gestures towards your own constantly trembling hands.

You know better than to feel offended (you're very offended) and instead offer him a defiant sip of your tea. Maybe camomile can still calm your nerves after all? It would not do to be traumatised forever. You would miss out on so many blends. Camomile and honey. Vanilla pods freshly pressed amongst tea leaves. A delicate – you’re getting lost in your thoughts again. Focus.

“One day, Mr D-Droog, you mmmay find yourself surprised. I am nnnot always this…this…m-mouse or this ‘trembling waif’ that you p-p-portray me as.” You mean that too. After all, there is still a God-like version of you observing the world that He created. If Mr Droog lacked one thing, you were sure that it was an imagination. Of course, he probably could think of thousands of ways of inflicting pain upon a person, you don’t doubt that he is creative, but you are fully aware that this realm works very differently to the other.

Inwardly, you wish that Droog could see you like that.

You have a certain confidence in the Imagination Realm. The shaking stops, for one thing, and your stammer becomes non-existent. Mind and body work together as opposed to apart. If Diamonds Droog saw you there…

“I am sure that you are incapable of surprising me, Inspector.” Droog has his own confidence in his abilities. Secretly, you know that his constant assaults have most certainly been because of his surprise. Smoke is breathed in your general direction to hide the slight twitch of his mouth, the smallest hint of a snarl, the signs of the anger welling up inside him as he outwardly lies about this fact. He seems completely relaxed and at ease with the current situation, but you know better, “Unless (he leans forwards, now smiling in a very unnerving manner, as though he has dug his heels into the stone surface of his composure) you have some…ace up your sleeve that I do not know about.”

When your mouth opens, your brain suddenly pulls the emergency stop lever. All function ceases and you merely sit there for a few moments staring at him with your lips parted. Your heart is racing as it tries to catch up with your rapidly processing thoughts. Nearly. Very nearly. You were about to blurt out something you would regret.

If his job is information gathering, then you know that every question and answer you give can and will be used against you. The irony of a mobster twisting that particular code of conduct is not lost on you.

Instead, you opt to smile and take another sip, stating, “We’ll see.”

He quirks a clearly unimpressed eyebrow, “Will we?”

For a moment, you think you have won. You’re feeling satisfied. Pleased. Very sure that what you have said has stumped him and ended the conversation entirely.

Then he leans forwards and you can smell coffee, cigarette smoke, and cologne. It is overpowering. Eye-wateringly so. Thick grey fog clouds your vision. The smile he wore before has turned into a grin, leering at you through the haze, perfectly clean and razor sharp teeth glittering like daggers, and…you’re worried. Oh GPI you are worried. Rightfully so. This man has proven again and again that he can hurt you. His voice rattles in his throat, creeps into your ears, chokes the breath out of you, “I look forward to it, Inspector.”

The gauntlet has been thrown.

Chapter Text

It was raining.

If he was being honest with himself, Pickle Inspector was pretty sure that this was how most horror stories started: the lone wanderer left outside in the harsh weather to be devoured and attacked in the darkness where no one could help them. Water slicked his trembling palms and made holding the rifle within them very difficult. Not the best situation he could have been in for sniping certainly. Underneath the makeshift shelter atop one of the buildings, he was dry enough, but occasionally a drop of water would find its way in somehow and either obscure his scope or wet his grip.

In all fairness, he had already protested to Sleuth about how terrible this night would be for covering fire, but once the del-facto leader decided something, it was hard to change his mind. The Inspector’s shoulder still hurt from where Problem Sleuth had clapped him upon it and exclaimed, “Don’t worry about a thing! Covering fire is kinda the last thing you’ll be used for. We just need you to ‘scope’ things out a little and warn us if there’s any danger. Besides, at least you’ll be out of the way! Don’t wanna get you caught up in it all.”

This later resulted in the tall lanky frame of Pickle Inspector lay down on a rooftop with a canvas over his head and a rifle in his hands.

He was good at what he did. Sniping had been a passion in his youth, and when he had done it for a brief spell (before the detective business reared its head) he had most certainly been credited for his ability to wound but not kill. In truth, despite his normal shaky attitude and his nervousness when in public, his aim when a rifle was in his hands was perfect.

More water dripped over the edge of canopy. Within the view of the scope he could see Sleuth and Ace moving around the side of the building. Silent as shadows. The thin and lithe figure of Sleuth could be easily recognised through the silhouette of his long coat and his hat, motioning for the much stockier and shorter outline of Ace to follow. Both had their guns drawn – not the imaginary guns that they often used in the imagination realm, but the real deal with a real chance of death upon entry should they mess things up – and both were surprisingly quick to make it to the back entrance they had been searching for.

Seconds passed. Pickle Inspector wiped a stray strand of wet blonde hair out of his eyes. The gentle patter of the rain upon the canvas became the only sound to be heard for miles around; a background noise that accompanied the scene playing out through the scope. Idly, the Inspector toyed with the idea that this was very much like one of those silent films, with every drop above him sounding like the old movie reels. Nothing but his mind to fill in the blank space of what could have been conversation between his partners.

What were they discussing? Were they even talking right now? Had Sleuth cracked a joke? Was Ace muttering and cursing under his breath as he often did when nervous?

Through the windows, yet another pantomime of events unspoken: several guards moving to and fro as they performed their nightly task.

The situation was thus: the Midnight Crew were back again – on the radar of Sleuth’s ‘people-I-have-to-catch’ list – and they were meeting with some of their…’flunkies’ to try and cut a deal for some arms.
That should have sent warning bells ringing off in Sleuth’s head straight away, but he did not seem to think about the potentially armed mobsters held within the warehouse – his mind was on the Crew and the Crew only. Things may have been argued, but when Ace was in agreement with their ‘fearless leader’, there was little that PI could have done. Who was he to disagree? Only one who had already ended up in hospital over this dangerous quartet of psychopaths. It wasn’t like his opinion mattered. Really.

Rude.

A long drawn out sigh escaped him. Pickle Inspector knew he had to relax, for tension made his aim unsteady, and that in turn only increased the danger that his allies were in.

Suddenly, Sleuth and Ace were in. The building that the Inspector crouched on was too far away to accurately hear anything, but there was certainly a sudden flurry of activity from within. It became hard to tell if the drips on PI’s face were seat or rain now. His skin prickled with nervousness; head feeling suddenly light. The dull thud of his heartbeat reminded him that he was still alive, but it was almost deafening now. Blood pounded in his ears.

Calm.

He needed to calm himself. Problem Sleuth had ascended a tower filled with things far darker than any mobster. They as a team had faced stereotypical end-of-the-world scenarios; heck, PI had faced Death himself in a gamble for his own life.

Something was just…not right about the Midnight Crew.
A feeling that was heavier than lead had pooled in the Inspector’s stomach and was threatening to weigh him down further.

Then a flash. Two flashes. Three…four…

Gunfire!

The scope was raised in seconds, PI casting his gaze over the situation with an almost frightening speed and accuracy. Two in the window, raising their pistols: easily dispatched by shots to the shoulder. Three running through the various boxes and conveyers in the warehouse: each one shot in the leg as soon as they dared reveal themselves. There were places that PI’s gaze could not reach, places where he had to trust in Mr Ace and Mr Sleuth, but those that came within his sights were wounded in an instant.

An explosion rocked the air. Fire licked at the brickwork and the wall erupted into a shower of sparks and debris. Canvas rustling and falling behind him as he jolted upright, the Inspector tried hard not to let a cry of fear escape him, struggling to get a close look through the smoke and the ash and the fire and –

Ace was thrown through the open wall to land painfully on the ground in front of the warehouse. There was blood on his hands, he was unarmed, and there were several burns on his jacket and hat (probably his body too). Not only that but he was getting to his feet in a painful fashion, which was never a good sign. This was a man who barely flinched when shot, a man who could lift even the weight of the Imagination World’s most heaviest object, and a man who was dubbed the strongest in the city. Watching him getting thrown about like a ragdoll made the heaviness sink even further in Pickle Inspector’s stomach.

Stepping through the debris, watching his footing, an enormous hulk of a man cracked his knuckles and wiped Ace’s blood from his suit. Behind him a much smaller figure, almost childlike in the way that he hopped and skipped over brickwork and flames, joyfully clutching what looked like a remote detonator in his stubby little paws. Hearts Boxcars and Clubs Deuce.
Sleuth was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Spades Slick.

Boxcars lightly picked Ace up off the asphalt and promptly slammed his meaty fist into nose and teeth. Blood exploded in a shower. Ace’s head snapped back and then forwards. Dazed. Eyes shut tightly. Crimson dripping down in a slow steady flow from his face.

The Inspector saw red.

Clenching his jaw tightly, vowing to not fumble this in any way shape or form, the rifle was raised with the utmost killing intent…and then something cold and solid pressed against the back of his skull. The barrel of a gun? A blackjack?

He knew who it was before he turned around.

“Good evening, Inspector.”

Strangely, despite the fact that this should have frozen him to the core with fear, PI felt strangely…calm. “Is it? Although it is evening, I would hardly call it a good one. I suppose it depends on which side you stand on, Mr Diamonds.”

A low laugh that sounded like poison dripping from a wound. “I always knew that your apparent stuttering nervousness was a façade. I kept telling myself that you were just faking it – kept telling Slick that you had let me beat you up to tangle up that particular web of lies more so.”

Pickle Inspector said nothing; only stared ahead.
It took him a while to realise that Diamonds Droog was not holding a gun to his neck but rather a pool cue which shifted a little in the mobster’s grasp. Clearly he had been expecting an answer, for he continued, “You shot five of our best men, you know? Slick says it’s hell down there. Deuce got too trigger happy. Probably would have been better if I had been down there instead of hunting after you, but alas here we are.”

Another noise could be heard over the long silences that stretched between the snippets that were their conversation. Rain upon an umbrella. Trust Droog to not want to ruin his appearance even in this situation. Since the canvas had rolled off his head and shoulders when he had bolted from his position, PI was soaked. His hair was wet and matted, slicked down and hanging over his eyes.

“…Turn around…”

The Inspector was now coming down off the high generated by his anger. It seemed the rain had cooled his boiling rage. Now he felt sick. Dizzy. Reminded of the visits in the hospital and the dangerous grip of Diamonds Droog. Was he crying? Some of the drops that smeared his face felt warm.

He turned.

Slowly.

Hesitant.

Now the rain sought to blind him. Blinking rapidly, he attempted to focus his blurred vision; anything to gather a picture of the mobster looming over him like a great black hawk swooping down over a helpless mouse. Droog said nothing. The downpour continued. Time seemed to pass.

The umbrella kept the bottom of his legs dry at least.
Then Droog spoke, but there was something incredibly…off about the tone. Almost as though his tongue was too thick for his mouth. Low and heavy. As he raised his pool cue once more, pressing it hard against PI’s throat, he licked his lips and gazed at his prey with such ravenous intent. For a moment, the Inspector truly feared that he was about to be devoured. Eaten alive by that hungry stare. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t put you back in the hospital.”

More sand ebbed through the hourglass of this moment.

“I…I do not have one.” Honesty was all that PI could splutter out. Did it really matter if he were sent back? It seemed to be a regular occurrence now. Would this happen every time? One had to wonder…

Every second was an eternity.

“...Not the answer I expected. Do you really think so low of yourself?” An eyebrow quirked, Droog’s malicious smirk seemed to radiate his violent intent.

Sadly, the Inspector shook his head, “No. I j…I just know how others perceive me. Y-you have…every intent to…to harm me…regardless of reasoning.”

“Indeed?” Another dangerous glance, yet softer this time, “Do you know why I do that?”

This time, a nod, “Because you clearly believe that I am…s-some sort of…liar. You…you have it in…in your h-head that I…that I am trying to trick you…or…or that I am mocking you in some way.”

Tired, long and drawn out, Droog sighed, his lip curling in a snarl. “Am I to believe that all of this back and forth between us is the result of a paranoid mind?”

At that, Pickle Inspector could not help but offer a quizzical glance at the mobster.

Shifting his grip on both pool cue and umbrella, Diamonds kicked at the detective’s shoes and looked very irritated, almost snarling, “I tried to tell myself that you were some criminal mastermind masquerading as a detective. An innovator of twisted thoughts and ideas. One who knew how to play the percentages and make a mobster think that you were breathing down their back at every minute.”

Droog’s lip curled in disgust, “But you…aren’t that, are you? You’re just an incredibly intelligent and incredibly stupid little cretin. Enough to pose a mild threat, but certainly not hiding anything. That much I can see now.”

When Droog kicked the Inspector’s feet again, there was a bit more force behind it, enough to throw off the lanky male’s balance in his seated position. PI managed to find the courage through this sudden jolt to splutter, “…does….does that disappoint you?”

“A little.” When he spoke, Droog seemed to be looking at something that PI could not see, something off in the distance beyond the warehouses and city streets. It reminded the Inspector of someone lost; alone. Shrugging, the mobster leaned on the pool cue, his tone as monotonous and as impassive as always, “I dare say, you are intelligent enough to present a challenge to me, Inspector, but I do not think that I should fear you.”

PI decided that Droog smiling was not something he liked. The mobster looked almost psychotic as he grinned to himself, upper lip curling back to reveal a row of perfectly white, sharp teeth. “Perhaps I should relish the idea of some sort of rival. After all, it has been so long since I have felt the thrill of the hunt. You may hold interest to me yet.”

Rain was soaking through his coat now, cold seeping into his bones and gnawing at his fingertips, as he lay prone before the dangerous male towering above him. Hair matted, skin starting to prickle, eyes fighting to see through a watery haze. The rifle felt heavy against him, yet he could no longer register its shape – merely feel its presence nearby.

“What now?” Shivering, PI felt his voice catch in his throat, “Is this where you break something?”

Droog said nothing.

“Please…tell me. What will you d-do with me now?” It sounded almost impatient, but it had been a question lingering in the air for longer than PI would have liked. Grey eyes glanced down, an eyebrow lifted, a frown shifted into a smirk – Droog was almost as surprised to hear the question as its speaker was afraid to say it. PI trembled, “I believe…t-that the fight down there is d-drawing to a close. The p-p-police have already…been alerted. There is no re-reason for us b-b-both to be here.”

That stare rooted the detective to the spot. It lingered on PI’s frame for a long time and then softened a little. Around them came the sounds of sirens wailing and gunfire echoing off the city walls. Below them, lights flickered on in houses as though the city were coming alive once more. Almost easy to miss at first, but definitely heard, the noise that Droog made could have only been irritation.

“…What would you wish to happen?”

Unexpected. Surprised by the sudden question, (a decision almost?) PI thought for a moment, then hazarded politely, “I would…like to not be beaten up again, if th-that is alright? It is…dreadfully inconvenient when…when I am in the hospital. I-I struggle to f-find things to d-do. M…mm…my mind is…less active when I am recovering.”

This earned a low and bitter laugh from Diamonds Droog, “Aren’t you a regular little Sherlock Holmes?”

The detective frowned. Surely he was not that bad? Certainly his mind craved stimulation, but he thought it somewhat harsh to assume that every intelligent investigator held a comparison to the great fictional detective.

PI did not detest life as Holmes did.

Still, Droog continued, one hand gesturing as though the tall male were performing for his captive audience in some fashion, “It pains me to admit that I am intrigued by you. I hate what you have done to my brain. You burrowed your way into my thoughts by sheer luck alone. I suppose - if I were being completely honest – that now I must continue to tear you apart until you break. I cannot have someone of…your calibre wandering around the streets in your usual aimless fashion. You might actually find something that leads to us being defeated and I cannot, for obvious reasons, allow that.”

With a roll of his eyes, and a wave of his hand, the pool cue seemed to vanish as though it had never been there at all. A single playing card was replaced in the top pocket of the mobster’s shirt.

‘Innocuous double.’ PI mentally confirmed, having now seen it being shifted fully, filing the information away for later.

“Because…I am getting close to finding out s-something useful, aren’t I?” It was more of a statement than a question. One that Diamonds agreed with, for he was nodding as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette and lighter. In almost rapt fascination, PI watched him place the stick between his lips and light it, as though he were inwardly obsessed with the terrifying male’s every habit. Smoke started to drift into the air and curl under the shelter of the umbrella. A satisfied sigh was almost lost amongst the patter of the rain, and the noises of the warehouse in the distance, but most definitely heard.

Caught in the mobster’s gaze, PI squirmed and managed to nudge himself backwards a little, leaning against the sodden tarpaulin. His clothes were damaged anyway. The rain had gotten to him a while ago. With an afterthought, the packet of cigarettes was offered to the detective, and refused with a polite shake of that blonde and brown shaggy mane.

The lack of conversation was broken by a sudden hiss of static.

From somewhere close to Droog’s hip, a radio crackled into life, a harsh rasping tone growling orders and panting as though out of breath. Although it was turned down low, the message seemed to have reached the intended target, for the mobster gave another irritated sigh and thumbed over the volume to turn the device off completely, “…I think this little heart to heart has earned your limbs a rest from being broken. I have other business to attend to.”

“But…” Pickle Inspector called out, giving the mobster reason to pause, wringing his hands nervously. He bit down his nervousness and found his courage in his still intact form, “…We will meet again! I…I’ll stop you!”

A bitter laugh. “…we’ll see.”

Chapter Text

Your name is Diamonds Droog and you are quite sure that sticking pins into your eye sockets is a more favourable option to listening to your boss chew you out for something that you had no part in.

Thing is, when Slick gets his little rabid jaws bitten into something, it is something akin to a starving dog with a choice piece of steak – it’s extremely difficult for him to let it go. Even with a lack of claws and carapace, he’s still just as dangerous to deal with. Currently, you are sat opposite him on a small battered table that has taken one too many knife wounds, leaning back (you’d never put your expensive clothes anywhere near that filthy surface) and enjoying a cigarette in the best way you can. To your left is Boxcars, to your right is Deuce, and both idiots seem utterly enthralled by the venomous words being spat out of Slick’s mouth at seventeen syllables per second. They are both giving the occasional “yes boss” and “no boss” in response to some asinine accusation and the whole affair makes your temples start to throb.

“This guy is the worst of all.” Oh excellent. Spades isn’t so much as talking to you as he is talking at you and about you. At present, his stubby little paws have extended a nubby little digit, and he is pointing at you as though you hold all of the world’s failures on your shoulders.

One of your eyebrows raises at that and you cast him a quizzical stare, “What did I apparently do now?”

It is apparently the wrong (or the right thing as you do love to wind him up in the darkest sense) thing to say, for the innocent table gets a knife deeply embedded into it as Slick’s metal arm forgets to hold back for a moment. If looks could kill, both you and Spades would be a messy bloody heap on the floor by now. His voice rises to a pitch you are honestly surprised his raspy tone could reach, “Are you SHITTIN’ me? Like, right now? Are we both at the same meetin’ here? Have you not been listenin’ to a freakin’ word that has been coming out of my mouth?”

Any sane person would have backed down, maybe even apologised, but you have made a life out of undermining him and you do not intend to stop now, “I only listen to relevant pieces of conversations. Why not say something as such and perhaps I’ll listen?”

Another knife finds itself lodged up to the grip in the table, “If you were there, we’d have finished off those no-good detectives! Where the fuck were you? You were fuckin’ flouncin’ around and flirtin’ with the goddamn Inspector! Playin’ happy black romance with the freakin’ enemy! You should’a been down there helpin’ with the rest of the team! We nearly got freakin’ crucified by the cops!!”

Idly, languidly, you take a drag from your cigarette and blow the smoke out between your clenched teeth. If Slick was not your best friend right now, you would smack him upside the head twice with your pool cue: once for his baseless accusations and a second time for his butchering of the language you all took great pains to learn. It is honestly a shock to yourself (and probably your team mates) that your voice remains calm throughout your response to that, “The Inspector took down five of our best men with very well aimed rifle fire. Although they are not dead, yet, we certainly have lost the use of them for now. At the time, I was erasing the greater threat from the situation. The police would not have even been there if Deuce had held back on the explosives that alerted the public. I’ve done nothing wrong. Point your ire elsewhere, Spades, or we may have a disagreement.”

Honestly, you’re so sick of this guy’s shit.

It is a testament to your age-old companionship that Slick’s knife has not found your flesh yet. Over and over again, the table gets the brunt of the smaller male’s anger, and repeatedly you make a sardonic statement about your ‘boss’ controlling his temper. Deuce and Boxcars look as though they want the ground to swallow them up in this moment.

For years (eternities, timelines, sessions, game files, realities) you and these three have always managed to find some way to interact or to befriend each other. Slick has not always been the boss, you have not always been the voice of reason, but you both can always attest to the constant companionship that you have shared. Fingers, flesh, and bones are easier to destroy than solid reliable carapace; you’ll cope somehow.

Tension rises again as Slick spits on the floor (disgusting habit built out of a human need for expelling unnecessary body fluids) and unearths another knife from somewhere within the confines of his jacket. Blade pointed in your direction, your companion stalks around the table and bares his teeth at you in the manner of a rabid canine, nothing short of foaming at the mouth. One beady black eye narrows, looks you up and down, and makes a decision that you are not privy to.

Twitching, you flex your arm, ready to pull the two of diamonds out from your sleeve and show this arrogant mutt the meaning of pain…but instead he moves past you and hurls the knife through the air. It lands with a sickening ‘thunk’ in the wall, reverberating for a few seconds, and then is still.

Glancing behind, you notice that it has landed true and square in the middle of the forehead of a cut-out faded newspaper photograph.

Problem Sleuth.

In all honesty, you can’t blame Slick for his recent obsession, for you too operate on a desire for a black romance. Before, the Boss had Snowman to contend with, and now no one. Save a certain detective. Idly, you wonder if Sleuth has even realised what he’s got himself in for, or even if these ‘people’ understand such a concept as a spade-led romance. Slick glowers for a moment, his single beady orb locked on the smirking visage of the idiotic sleuth, and then turns his back on it and mumbles to himself about getting ready for a new plan.

Deuce and Boxcars stare for a moment, looking at each other and then yourself, before also beating a hasty retreat from the knife-filled meeting room. Hesitant if only for a moment, you gaze past the knife and take in the disgustingly human features of the blond-haired detective, committing each wrinkle and every curve to memory, before deciding that no: this man is not one whom you wish to waste your time with.

You’ll happily let Jack deal with that shit show.

When all has been said and done, you slink off to your room and ensure that the door is well and truly locked, hooking a finger into your tie and slowly gliding the silk knot downwards from around your throat. With both hands, you meticulously fold the adornment to your attire, before replacing it within the box that once contained it, tucking it safely back in the drawer with all of its other uniform and identical brothers. Jacket neatly placed on a solid wooden hanger - de-furred with a lint roller, and sprayed liberally with fabric cleaner – you feel a little more at ease with the world.

Here, your kingdom is simply perfection - easily the cleanest and most professional place within the entire underground base – and you can lounge in your favourite easy chair to forget the nightmare of the evening.

Although ‘nightmare’ is purely one perspective.

Dare you admit it: that you actually had fun on the top of that building in the pouring rain?

Of course you did. There was no question about it really. Slick’s venom was a small price to pay for the fact that you finally found someone worthy of your time. Not some flapping dame, or sleazy broad, or even a violent mobster, but rather a frail and trembling little creature. Someone who seemed as though you could have broken them a thousand times and yet they’d still come back for more. A detective – no, an Inspector. Weak and feeble and hardly an ounce of muscle on his skinny little frame, yet so intelligent and observing. Those eyes had seen things that your paltry imagination could not even dream to conjure. You knew it; he knew it.

A definite spark lay within each broken rip and every swing of the pool cue. Feelings that were as black as night hung their inky tendrils around both of your bodies and smothered the common sense that begged you both to just stay away from each other.

You loved it.

Adored that dark thrill that could ignite the fire of emotion within your soul. Normally so stoic and so grounded, you had begun to think that this new life was similar to your own – so full of disappointment and the complete lack of anything interesting – but then…

A dark smile creeps over your lips. Now that you are alone, you unfurl the newspaper that had been lingering in your inventory for quite some time, and remove the cards that your had hidden within its pages. In those long and nimble fingers, you count them (one, two, three cards), and move over to your desk to spread them out under the scrutinising gaze of the lamplight. One shows the Inspector’s battered card details (and reminds you to copy it later on the skimmer), another appears to be a passport of sorts (listing places that you have absolutely no idea about, and warranting some research later), and finally a rather weather worn (lack of care) licence that contains what you can assume once was a professional photograph of the man you now hunt.

All of your loot was obtained on that rooftop and secured the minute you noticed them lying by the Inspector’s gangly frame. With the first jolt of his body as he felt the tip of the pool cue, his pockets had relinquished their hold on the precious cargo that was now yours, and you doubted that he would notice them missing until long after you had checked up on everything you could.

There was so much you could do: check on his bank details, look at his hometown, discover any skeletons in his closet, and – most importantly – prove that you too were capable of pulling the same stunt that he had pulled on you the first time you had met all those months ago.

How stupid you had been to let him reach inside your jacket. It seemed so idiotic now that you looked back on it. Ever since then you had carried your wallet safe and sound in your trouser pockets, where you could feel it at all –

You’re no stranger to that sensation.

That low and sinking feeling that reaches into your stomach and starts to strangle your organs. The cold and clammy realisation that you most certainly can no longer feel your wallet pressed against your outer thigh. A thought that threatens to consume your entire being when it dawns upon you that you have not felt that warmth or heaviness since you took that first passionate motion to summon your weapon from where it lay within its guise as a playing card. Probably jolted loose by your silent ascension up the side of the building where your prey hid.

You have never put on a jacket that quick in your entire life.

There isn’t enough time to bother with the tie as you race towards the exit of the base, snarling at Deuce that you are heading out before he has time to open his stupid flapper, letting the wind and the rain assault your entire body as you dare to step out into the storm.

Stupid. Stupid. Idiot. Moron. Idiot. Stupid...fucking...idiot!

Berating yourself for the better part of an hour you race through the slick city streets that seem to ooze with pus and weep with tears as the rain pours around you. Puddles form endless voids in the sidewalks in front of you. The combination of the dark skies and the shadows thrown to the floor from the street lights form new and interesting shapes and designs onto the asphalt.

Steam rises from vents and manholes, hissing venomously as you pass, striking your ankles with wet heat as it occasionally grabs and claws blindly in the darkness. In the distance, thunder rumbles, and the air feels alive with electricity from an oncoming storm.

Breathless, rain soaked, haggard - you finally make it.

Taking a moment to pull air back into your lungs, you shakily (furious, angry, trembling with the urge to kill something) grab for a flashlight in your pocket and press the button, illuminating the area beneath the ladder. Though your hawk-like eyes flicker back and forth, you see no sign of your precious leather wallet, and the rage bubbles even more so within you. Even combing over every inch of fetid and filthy dirt yields no success.

Finally, annoyed, bitter, and definitely more inclined towards murder, you start to painfully scale the ladders and fire escapes once more. You have never been this angry before. Ever. A while back - somewhere between your flirtatious dance with the Inspector and becoming human - you would have said that you had already passed the full range of emotions you could feel, but it seemed like fate was most certainly showing you what you were capable of.

This was pretty much it for you.

Hand on painfully human heart: you have never been this angry before (livid would probably be a better descriptor).

Naturally, there is no sign of your wallet anywhere and (you are going to fucking kill him you know it’s him who has taken it who else would it be that little nosy cretin) you decide to call it a night before someone really gets hurt.

Not you.

Someone.

Anyone.

The Inspector…?

Probably.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

You lean back and pull a sodden packet of cigarettes out of your jacket pocket to regard them mournfully. Of all the times you needed a smoke this would probably be the kicker. Not that the night could get any worse. Idly, you suppose that you could get struck by lightning - even sparing a glare at the sky to even dare to do so - but in a literal sense, you don’t think anything else will make you boil over with rage like this. Sighing, you begin your descent down the ladder, making sure to take your time.

Above you, thunder rumbling threateningly, the storm continues.

Chapter Text

Shock, terror, sickness, disgust, fear.

Inside, your guts churn and your heart beats, and - oh GPI I am going to die this is it I am legitimately going to die and Mr Sleuth will walk in one day and find my corpse flat out on the table and beaten to death with oh dear oh dear oh dear - you edge ever closer to having a full blown heart attack.

Starting at the beginning, you are Pickle Inspector, and you are no stranger to this scene: the one in which you hunch over as though utterly terrified and hold Diamonds Droog’s wallet in your trembling fingers. Only, this time was entirely accidental, and did not come as a result of your instinctive reaction to acquire evidence.

Panic causes your eyes to sting and your heart to race, but there is something else there. Something familiar. Something that almost saw this happening. Something that reassures you that this action and the consequences of it are predictable and able to be managed.

This seems to be a routine.

Over the past few months and weeks, you have been playing this cyclical game very well: he beats you up, you get one over on him, then he is snarky and very rude, and finally he beats you up again. Frankly, now that you are sat in your office, huddled in a desk fort, and truly thinking about it, the whole affair seems like it needs to break the mold somehow.

You need to do something rather than wait for him to come to you.

Hastily, you unscrew the cap off your hip flask and take a long, good, hard swig of the burning moonshine within (‘liberated’ some time ago from one of Ace’s stills). It should burn all the way down, but you’ve been drinking steadily for as long as you can remember, so the bitterness is somewhat refreshing to you. There is still a tell-tale sting and a bite to the substance that lingers long after it is downed, but that is reassuring in a way to you.

Already you can feel yourself drifting off into the depths of your own imagination. Honestly, it’s been a long while since you’ve roamed this realm, and it’s pull is familiar to the corners of your memory and psyche. Languidly, you stretch out and lounge against the hardwood walls of your fort, lulled into the dimension that you feel you have more control over. Nothing can harm you in your fort. You are in control.

Death greets you in your office and politely bows.

Already He is preparing tea for the two of you, His long dexterous bony fingers tapping against the delicate ceramic of the cups and saucers, a pot of fresh leaves brewing gently upon the tray on your desk. Idly, you notice that there is a lot of dust gathering in corners and on shelves, and you frown at the idea that you (and the rest of Team Sleuth) have not been into the Imagination Realm since you started this whole business with the Crew. Even the light seems a little dull in here lately - you change that with a wave of your hand and let the bulb glow brightly within its ceiling shade nest - and you definitely need to spruce up your desks and shelves - again, all done with a little thought and some direction.

An approving hum sounds in the room as Death steps onto a freshly cleaned red rug. His voice is like a distant waterfall, or a drop of water echoing in the middle of a very large cavern, and, despite the familiarity of those bones and those hollow tones, He is still very disconcerting as He admires your newly freshened office.

The record player starts to scratch out some old jazz as Death takes the seat in front of your desk. His teeth are always stretched upwards in that permanent grin, and those sockets remain void-like in their glance, but you can tell (because you know Him better than you know yourself) that He is pleased to see you.

“You’ve been gone a long time.” It is neither question nor statement. You are not required to answer, nor are you required to take it as His opinion. He could be speaking to you from the past, present, or future. As far as opening words go, it simply...is.

You choose to answer Him regardless, out of respect and politeness, “...the Crew are taking up a lot of our time.”

Now playing the proper host, you pour the pair of you a steaming cup of tea, and slide a saucer underneath each one. A beautifully decorated sponge cake seems to materialise from nowhere, and you cut both yourself and your guest a slice. As you hand it over, unsure if Death will or can eat at all, you raise your gaze to - hopefully - meet his own, and politely murmur, “How are things here?”

Death answers as though the wind whispering through the woods had found a coherent voice, “Oh you know. The usual. The four kingdoms remain at peace. GPI regards us fondly. You cannot change the way these things happen. Life goes on.”

He sighs and you can feel the icicles hanging on every word, the steam rising upwards from His teacup and passing His face, showing that He speaks without a single breath. “You’re in quite a pickle.”

The last thing you needed was Him telling you that.

You give a curt nod and then stare into the swirling depths of your drink as though expecting to gain a vision from it. Patiently, Death watches you - or does He? He could be thinking about anything right now and you wouldn’t know because His eyes do not exist and all you can see is the black abyss that lies beyond and - and does not hurry you, nor does He give the impression that you are expected to reply. Again, it was a statement and a question and was neither.

Despite your rudeness and lack of proper hosting, Death does not follow up with anything else, and silence hangs between you for what feels like hours - a few minutes at least .

“Are you...are you here because...because I am going to die soon?” From your trembling lips spills a dark fear. Death could be smiling for all you know; He could be awaiting the day when your soul finally does reach Him. You were a good opponent for Him in the last few board games you had. Perhaps He has been lonely without you?

Despite a skull that lacks any form of expression at all, Death seems to radiate reassurance, and shakes His head, “Oh no no no. I am here because I felt your presence. It has been so long. We are, after all, connected in a fashion. GPI makes it so.”

When He mentions this, you see through His eyes, and HIS eyes, and the universe explodes in a shower of stars and you can see everything that once was and what could be and planets are being born and yet are dying and…

You shake your head.

Everything is fuzzy for a moment.

Death manages to appear concerned. “I do apologise. Perhaps this is a thing of which we must not speak. I confess to not fully understanding this realm and what it can do. I suppose only you know that.”

“It’s...fine.” ( It’s not. ) Shakily, you take a sip of tea and then try to steady your breathing. Imagination is a powerful asset to you. It would be foolish to try to ponder further on that subject. Instead, it would be best to focus on what has been bothering you - which seems like a better alternative to reaching the edges of the universe with your understanding. “...Mr Droog is a constant threat. Both Mr Sleuth and Mr Ace have their own problems to deal with...but it feels like Mr Droog is the most dangerous man in the Midnight Crew.

“We...he...I...well...there’s this...thing going on at the moment...where he seems to want nothing more than to torture me. I do not know if he sees me as some threat, or if he is just toying with me, but I...I can’t keep this up. I need to make him back off somewhat. Need to make him see that this can’t continue. But...what can I do? My strongest stat is my…”

Then it hits you.

An absolute gem of an idea.

Although Death cannot smile, you swear you see those teeth pull back a little in a small gesture of approval.

Chapter Text

Your name is Diamonds Droog and angry is an understatement to how you are feeling right now.

Broken desks, shattered glass, torn down blinds, scratched walls: all a testament to your current state of being. Shakily, hand trembling with the sheer level of emotion running through your (stupidly) human frame, you raise the cigarette to your lips and inhale deeply. Smoke curls around your head and drifts in rivulets from between the gaps in your teeth. One immaculately polished shoe rests on the open and slashed seat of a chair; the legs bent and buckled and twisted out of shape.

In the other hand…

Coldly, your eyes glare at the scrawled writing that seems to be taunting you from the torn out page it is written on, the red of the diamond at the top of the page an almost symbolic representation of your current state of being.

You read. You re-read. You stop. You read again. You break another of the unfortunate chair’s legs beneath your furious heel.

Then you repeat.

You repeat until you are calmer and then you extinguish what could be your third or thirteenth cigarette in the cracked teacup - now full of ash and the burnt out stubs of its former allies. When free, your hand strokes over your messed up hair and smooths it down back to its original glory.

This time you truly take in what is being conveyed to you via the Inspector’s ridiculous penmanship.

‘Dear Mr Droog ( for the love of anything that is cruel and twisted - how long will the Inspector keep up this ridiculous charade?),

You can't hurt me. Not yet. Naturally, you could wait for me and then hurt me afterwards, but that would waste both your time and mine. (Literally the boldest thing the trembling little waif has dared say to you; not even directly to your face.)

Don't try to understand. ( Bastard.)

If you wish to truly see what gives me this confidence, go home, do as I do, and simply imagine.

I look forward to seeing you.

We should have tea. I'm sure there is a peaceful solution to this.

Love, ( utter bullshit)

PI’

Once you have a good grasp on what he is blathering on about, you turn your icy gaze to the corner of the room.

To where the Inspector currently resides inside a small box made out of plywood.

Naturally, you backtrack a little. Back to when you had first come into this ridiculous little room that masquerades itself as an office.

Hellbent on smashing the mousy-blond idiot’s face in with your pool cue, you had managed to blow the door off its hinges with a well aimed blast of shadow magic, and had then stormed right on in. Weapon raised high, fury in your eyes, you had every amount of confidence in your ability to ensure that this back-and-forth would end in blood...and then had ended up picking splinters out of your leather gloves.

The little plywood box was invulnerable.

Before your very eyes, your signature weapon had shattered under the force of its own strike, and your gloves had been torn to shreds.

Without even hesitating, you had pulled out a pistol, quickly emptying it of every round inside its chamber, your anger slowly rising like the bubbling water inside an over-boiling kettle.

Not a scratch on the surface of the wood.

Through the slat in one of the sides, you could see him sat there: a small tea set at his feet, his eyes closed in concentration (or slumber - you couldn't tell which), looking so serene and...unafraid. Confident.

And your rage had just exploded.

Destroying everything that you could still affect. You had reduced everything to dust. Everything you could and would destroy. Over and over again until you were spent.

Everything but that fucking magical immortal box.

You swore you'd turn it into his coffin one day. Bury him in his little plywood prison. If you weren't sure that it would somehow backfire, you were tempted to nail him into his little creation.

Of course, it was then that you had caught sight of your wallet and the cursed written page in a clear wallet stapled to the side of the makeshift shelter. A clear challenge.

Still, the question remained: what in the moon of Derse was he talking about?

Do as he did? What manner of magic was this? Nothing you had ever seen before; that much was certain.

Did he expect you to go home and lock yourself up in a plywood box?

Upon further - less rage fuelled - inspection, you could clearly see that it was simply two plywood walls with a simple roof made by the coat of the Inspector being draped over it. Two cinderblocks held the wood in place, and the slat seemed as though it only existed because one wall was shorter than the other - not because it was intentional.

What was the game here? Tea parties in a corner? Trap yourself inside two walls and then use magic that your enemy literally had no idea you had ? Build an elaborate forcefield?

Either way, it seemed that the key word suggested that you had to use your imagination some how.

...whilst in a box.

Normally, you would scoff at such a suggestion, but you had clearly seen that there was some real magic in this. Magic that you did not yet have the capacity to fathom, apparently.

In the end, it seemed as though your curiosity had won over your desire to simply wait, and you used your lighter to relieve you of the troublesome words that now plagued your thoughts.

Do as he did. Make a shelter and then imagine yourself somewhere else. Intriguing. Certainly the Inspector kept surprising you.

You supposed you could play his little game.

For now...

Chapter Text

“A...ah...you got my note. H...how nice.”

Your current reverie is interrupted to regard the mobster slowly stalking across the room towards you. Before that moment, you had been setting out your tea set exactly the way you wanted it, and ensuring that your office was looking absolutely perfect (it hadn't taken much effort, in all honesty, but then again nothing ever did in the boundless realms of your imagination). Now, you were looking very hard at the immaculate shape of Diamonds Droog and somehow - only now - just really taking the sight of him in.

He looks lost.

That oil slick hair peppered with streaks of white and grey seems to take a little step back when his forehead creases in confusion. Wrinkles crack the surface of perfection and follow his eyebrows in their upwards arc. Little droplets catch the light ever so slightly and stand out on dark tan cheeks. Tight thin lips seem to overlap slightly at the corner as one tooth worries at skin. Eyes are not focused on you for once. They're looking around with all the wonder of a child in a candy store.

Of course, your office here is beautifully decorated. You would not allow anything less.

Confidence seems to dictate your every motion as you pour both yourself and he a cup of freshly brewed tea. Hands that would often shake and tremble do not do so now. Every motion is precise and well-thought out. In fact, you don't even have to stutter here, But some normality may prevent the gangster from catching on too quickly. “W...won't you please sit?”

The first time he hears your voice, he opens his mouth to say something - a threat or a promise or a curse; certainly he looks a little haggard and on edge - but soon closes up all thought and feeling upon catching sight of your office. This time, his cold icy gaze finishes its preliminary sweep and locks on you.

“No.” A slight dry tone of him gathering himself? Throat constricting for a few seconds as though he had not used his voice in this world yet? “No, Inspector. I think not. You know why I am here.”

“Because...you left your w-wallet at a crime scene and...and you wished t-to get it back? I gave it back. D-did you nnot see it?” Acting ignorant will enable you to gain a precious few seconds of further analysis.

Strange, that action seems less consuming in this office - in this world. What would often cause you to lose several strands of precious contemplation is now knitting itself together in such a clear pattern that you were surprised it took so much effort before. Thoughts delicately weave around in such a way that you feel you could take on more than one at a time.

Diamonds Droog pulls out a pistol - a very old model, six shots, already loaded, recently cleaned, well kept, with a small diamond etched into the side and a very intricate pattern covered slightly by his hand - and aims it at your head. To anyone who may be watching (there are most certainly people watching) that voice is devoid of any emotion, but you can see beyond a poker face and years of trained tone. You can hear the anger rising with every syllable he utters. In all honesty, you assumed you'd heard him angry before; this is more akin to livid. “I got the wallet. You called me out, Inspector. A very dangerous move. It seems you had one more little trick up those ridiculously long and wrinkled sleeves of yours.”

Click.

“But no matter.” Speaking as though there is nought but sheer hatred behind his every intention, Droog places a cigarette in his mouth with his free hand and lets it dangle there as he steadies his aim, “I'm not here to play games or have tea. I couldn't kill you before so I'm merely finishing a job. It would be...unprofessional of me to leave you alive at this juncture.”

Gasping, you feign surprise as you motion your hand towards his gun, a gesture that could look like you are questioning the move, “S...surely not? You merely dropped it. W...we all make mistakes, Mr D-Diamonds.”

To this he does not reply (how dare you suggest that). Instead, he curls his finger around the trigger and simply pulls…

...and a PEZ pellet pings off your forehead.

Ouch.

If anything, it's a testament to his perfect aim. Still hurts. PEZ launched at high velocity can still cause a nasty welt. You're certainly going to bruise.

Clattering noisily to the desk, the pellet lies still and both of your eyes follow it for a moment before you raise your own to take in the most glorious sight: the look on Diamonds Droog's perfectly flawed face.

You would have paid anything to have immortalised this moment in film. Surely this is priceless? The way his eyes widen, those cold dead ice coloured orbs registering shock (human - he looks so human), and a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his dark skin. From you, to the gun, to the PEZ pellet now sitting quietly and innocently atop your desk, and then back to you once more: his eyes are confused and...scared?

If he was angry, you would have five more PEZ shaped welts on your head. From experience, you know that he tends to lash out with extreme violence when he feels his perfect facade crumbling. No. This is something else.

You decide to end your own charade.

“Mr Droog, please. Sit down.” The chair opposite your desk moves of its own (your own) accord, politely offering the dangerous man a seat. It looks so...hardboiled! Mr Sleuth would be proud! You don't have the pulchritude to offer anything more than polite requests rather than witty one liners, but you are very pleased that the combination of your manners and an invisible chair pull seems to be super effective.

Clearly, he thinks things over, very much looking at all possible routes he could take. A tactician and a master of ideas and plans. The most dangerous mind in the Midnight Crew…

He takes a seat..

In reality, you are weak and frail; here you are a God.

He did not know this and now that he does he realises that he should not have followed you here. Idly, you wonder what his own imaginary base looks like, although you can picture that it would look exactly the same as it does in the present.

Sometimes, when people aren't aware of the Imagination Realm, they wake up in exact copies of the world they started to dream in. Once you are aware, then everything becomes a blank slate for your imagination to play with.

Diamonds Droog does not seem the type to play make belief.

“Okay.” When Droog utters that word, it is with a sigh that suggests he has given up trying to guess and is now trying to actively understand. Suspecting that the next few hours will be taken up with this, you take your own seat.

Pouring tea and cutting a slice of cake, you wait for Droog to make his next move.

“...I'll bite: what is this exactly?” Oh my. He sounds utterly done. Surely this cannot be his first utter defeat? Then again, he does pride himself on his perfection. Politely you move the cake and teacup in front of him and are taken aback by him immediately taking the fork in his hand as though intending to eat. His other hand still clutches his candified weapon.

“Where do you want me to start?” Softly sliding your own utensil through a thick slab of red velvet cake, you hope your smile is reassuring.

A gun clatters on the surface of the table. Its chamber is open to reveal the one empty space and five PEZ pellets. Droog scowls, “Here is a good start.”

“Ah. Well. I didn't want to die, so I turned your gun into a candy one. Besides, bullets don't do much in this Realm. One has to use their imagination if one wishes to cause any harm here.” It seems obvious and yet Droog appears just as confused. He'll need some time to process that.

Only now does he seem to remember the cigarette in his mouth, motioning with his lighter in an obvious manner so that you could suggest otherwise if you so desired (he should be allowed one, he's been through a lot since he got here, it's a coping mechanism for him). Instead (merely showing off at this point), you offer a flame of imaginary fire to light it and delight in the expression of worry on his face, watching as he slowly places his own lighter back in his pocket. Dark skin lighting up with orange flickers for a moment, he leans in, catches a light, and returns to his previous position. Leaning back in his chair, neatly crossing one leg over the other, supporting his arm as he smokes, Diamonds Droog stares long and hard at you. If he was waiting for you to speak then he certainly seems to have decided against that idea currently. A low growl leaves his throat, “I thought it was unusual.”

At this, you cock your head, for you're unsure if he is referring to the gun. He's not. As usual, he's moved on from questioning anything that may open himself up to humiliation, instead merely talking at you in a slightly off-hand manner. You're inclined to let him just talk; you're not the sort to boast and it seems he really needs this.

“You were in a fort.” Smoke is blown out through his nose in distaste, “I couldn't damage it. Believe me: I tried.”

That is a fact you don't question. It explains his murderous intent at least. With enough thought (and delving into things you should not) you could probably get a visual of that moment, but decide against it. Remembering his fork, Droog cuts a slice of cake and then eyes it like it has personally offended him, before tasting it. Honestly, you're not sure a pre-cake drag of a cigarette is good for fully capturing the flavour of that cake, but it must taste good at his eyebrows arch a little in pleasant surprise.

“Yes. That makes sense. Forts are the manifestation of a sort of...safety net?” Strange: you've never had to explain this before. Putting words to a magic held within the power of belief is difficult - even for you, “When we wish to arrive here, we need to keep our imaginations open, and uphold our own safety. The fort calls upon a magic that is far older than anything I could explain. It stems from childish games of make belief to the physical protection in the material plane.”

Droog's expression is...odd. Magical barrier, he seems to have absolutely no trouble with, but when you start talking about childish games and imagination, his eyes seem to give away something that you never expected.

Diamonds Droog has never played games as a child, nor has he ever played make belief. Certainly he has an imagination - his being here is a testament to that - but you doubt he has ever used it creatively in the way you or Sleuth have. After all, there are many unexplained mysteries surrounding the crew, it is not completely out of the realms of imagination to question what growing up must have been like for them.

With an air of acceptance, he also seems to have realised this. His voice is almost distant and a little embarrassed when he murmurs, “...Pretend I don't know what a childhood is like. All I need to know is that I'm magically safe inside a…’fort’ and this is a realm that exists alongside our own. In our imagination, yes?”

At that, you nod.

Droog clicks his teeth. Clearly not the answer he was after; most certainly the answer he'll have to accept. Idly, he takes a long drag on his cigarette to ponder this over, and inhales deeply - sharply. Another slice of cake is cut (it's a compliment that he went back for more, really). A long drawn out sigh accompanies the exhale, “I see. So, none of this is real?”

At that, you are forced to interject. Not many people would tell a vicious monster every rule of the game that they were unaware they were playing, but you've always been fair. “Oh, it is very real, Mr Droog. Actions here have consequences. If you die here, you lose one of the three lives you are permitted, and then after that...well. I dare say, I have known people to never be able to dream again in life due to a permanent ‘death’ here. There's an afterlife. I have seen it. Once Death claims you in imagination it is only a matter of time before He seeks you in life. Not many know the risks. People sometimes wander here in their dreams and don't quite understand what is going on. Lucid dreaming plays a large part in that.”

“Three...lives? What?” Letting the fork clatter noisily to the plate, Droog leans forwards, brow creased in thought. Throughout your explanation he hasn't moved an inch, and you can see his cigarette is burning in a way that is dangerously close to falling on your carpet. Idly, you rattle the ashtray you had conjured for him (and Mr Sleuth and Mr Ace on occasion), and he seems to come to himself long enough to deposit the end of the cigarette harmlessly. “Lucid dreaming. Hm. Like those children on Derse. Influencing another world whilst you sleep.”

You're not sure what he means by ‘children on Derse’ but you can answer his first query. Sipping your tea, you continue, “From what I understand, the childish mind forms many parts of the way this world works. The horror terrors that appear when all goes dark, the use of candy instead of live ammunition, and the idea that it is a game that has a fair use of three lives. Children use their imagination far more than adults do, so it stands to reason that they shaped this world and its denizens.”

Honestly, you had never thought to probe deep into the origins of such a place. Until your escapade a few years ago, you weren't aware of there being any importance to the land of make belief, but obviously things are very different now. What actions you had taken had led to a bleed over into his world and had given you - well, a part of you - a position nothing short of Godhood.

In some timeline, you're fairly sure you may have created the world…

Mulling this over, Droog hums - a deep gravelly noise in the back of his throat (then again, you doubt he lends himself to a range of tone from the way his monotonous vocal cords seem to operate) - and seems to simply accept the nature of things as he shrugs. “I cannot on my own pride admit to understanding all of what you say, but I am sure that you have more of a grasp on this world than I do.”

You don't respond; it would be insulting to do so.

After another thoughtful bite of cake, and a sip of tea, the mobster sighs and gazes down at his hands. As though thinking of something that you couldn't possibly comprehend, he seems to come to some sort of conclusion, and starts to remove a single glove. Long bony fingers that flex and move in an almost testing manner are brought up for inspection.

Confusion is present in your gaze. Droog seems to notice this and meets your eyes with his own, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Ah.” If this man were capable of anything above his own quiet monotone, you are quite sure his voice would be amused with a secret triumph, “It would seem you do not know everything and are not a mind reader in this world. For that I am thankful. Allow me to educate you in exchange for your...valuable information.”

This time, it is your turn to gawk in shock, as the flesh on his hand starts to lose its wrinkles and creases and the already tan skin begins to turn a thick inky black. Two of his fingers seem to stick together, merging without making a sound. If Mr Droog could be described as sharp as diamonds before, then this entire transformation makes him seem sharper still - harsh lines and jagged claws. Interlocking plates that most certainly remind you of the carapace of a beetle or some other such armoured insect. Darker than the void, glistening like wet leather, flexing, creaking, cracking…

...and then Droog sits back and it is like nothing ever happened. A normal hand turns itself over, two sets of eyes scanning it (his and yours), before placing bare fingertips upon the teacup once more.

Just as you are about to blame some other outwardly source for your apparent hallucination, your eyes happen to flicker upon the bead of sweat that makes its way down the side of the mobster’s face, his parted lips suggesting a silent breathlessness. Unlike others, Droog does not pant, or show any outward dishevellment, but he certainly has just used an awful lot of thought and magic to do whatever it was he just did.

A scoff - embarrassment? humour? - catches your attention. Droog shakes his head, “Pitiful. It seems I am forgetting myself now. It's strange how many years of life mean nothing when you wake up to this flesh sack every single day for the past few months.”

“What...what was that?” You hazard, releasing a breath of your own that you were not aware you were holding.

Sardonic as ever, sipping his tea, shoulders shrugging in a gesture that seems too light-hearted for the terrifying mobster, Droog clicks his teeth, “What I used to be. At least, what I remember I used to be. Before here. Before we came to this...existence.”

Puzzle pieces seem to slot into place at those words. You recall Mr Sleuth saying that their boss had mentioned something along those lines when he had been accosted in the alleyway the night the Midnight Crew first showed up.

They are not from this planet; perhaps not even from this reality.

“...You were...some sort of...beetle?” It's worth asking. Saying it sounds stupid.

Droog curls his lip, “Tch. No. I was a Dersite. Our planet was called Derse. We lived in the farthest reaches of space. Just out of grasp of any lurking horrorterrors. Things...things got complicated there. Then we went to another planet in exile and...well. It's long gone now. I died. We died. Then there was nothing. Floating. Blackness. And then we were here. I was waking up on a sidewalk in the rain, cold, scared, naked (you try and fail to not picture that, but you've seen a lot of Droog from when you went to see him the first time at the brothel, and from the direction this conversation has gone with the two of you sitting there talking over tea and cake, you're actually starting to - oh no - you like him - you like how smart he is and - oh goodness -) and more than pissed off.”

It takes a moment for you to digest this new information. You decide that for as long as he seems to be amiable, you're going to try and pick things out. Sipping your tea, you cock your head to one side, “What happened to Derse? Perhaps it is not unlike this world. We have a darkness that creeps in with horrifying creatures when night falls--”

“--Derse is gone. Flung off into nowhere. Ja- Slick said that shit went down. Everything is gone from our world. It no longer matters.” Cutting you off (although not wholly arrogantly) Droog sighs and sits back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling. He looks so human and so old now. In the imagination realm - your domain - you feel as though your control over the area makes you underestimate the imaginary powers of others. Everyone seems so impossibly fragile before you. Droog continues, “Hn. Doesn't matter. We're here on Earth now. And I am here: in this new imagination world. Learning.”

For a few minutes, you both merely sit and eat cake, occasionally sipping tea. It's almost pleasant. Like having a friend (a very handsome and intelligent and strong - no stop that - he is an enemy and tea and cake don't necessarily constitute to a date per se ) over for once in your life.

Eventually, Droog once again breaks the silence, “Strange. I cannot shake this feeling of being watched. It's...like...your gaze. So...simpering and ogling. But every time I look up, your eyes are on the cake or on the tea or ogling something entirely different. I trust you have an explanation for this?”

“Ah. Him.” Honestly, you're not sure how much you should give away here, but there is hardly any reason to be discrete about something that anyone who has ever lived in this Realm knows about. “It...It is me and yet it is not me. A long time ago, I managed to make a part of myself ascend to Godhood. He now resides in both this world and the real one. Technically...I created the world, you know? Time shenanigans. He watches over everything here.”

What you do not decide to tell Droog is that Godhead Pickle Inspector is not the vengeful or interfering sort of deity. You can let him think that you have total dominion of this world.

From the look on his face, you are more than satisfied to see that flicker of fear flash across his features, before...something else takes its place…something you are not familiar with.

He stares deeply at you. Intense. Searching. However, it is far from his usual expression. It...sort of makes you uncomfortable. When he speaks, his voice almost seems to harbour some kind of amusement? “You...just keep getting more and more fascinating. At first this job seemed so easy but you have made it oh so difficult. Back and forth. Many months of this wonderful game of cat and mouse and yet...I'm still surprised.”

Is that tone...admiration?

No. It cannot be. It isn't.

And yet…

“Really...when I first saw you at that whore house with your shambling and bumbling methods of investigation, I thought that death would find you swiftly, but here we are.” Sighing, Droog finishes the cake, gazing down at his plate with an almost longing expression. You motion to cut him a slice more, but his raised hand - and the gesturing of his free hand towards his cigarette case - halts you in doing so. This time, he actually leans forwards to watch the flames that dart from your fingertips, leaning back and inhaling deeply.

“I've lost here.” Shrugging, the mobster admits his defeat with his usual air of grace. “And punishing you in our reality wouldn't be satisfying after this. I think we can stop this now. I'll tell Slick that he can play with your detective as much as he likes, but I doubt that - unless we are both caught on a heist as we were on that rooftop - we will continue to investigate each other.”

Strangely, you agree. After so long (so many hospital trips and dances in the darkness and tea parties and - you've still seen him naked - everything else you've ever done) you have figured this man out and have heard the origins of the crew. They're here to stay. Once you've written your report for Sleuth, you'll be back to monitoring the crew as a whole and plotting out their intentions, as you were when this whole debacle started.

After this somewhat confession from Droog (internally from yourself), you both pass the rest of the evening in relative silence. The only comments are directed at the tea you have brewed, or are idle observations about the weather or the city. Eventually, the mobster stands and presses his cigarette into the ashtray, maintaining eye contact the whole time he does it, an air of finality to this meeting.

You stand politely and watch him head to the door, watching him pause and glance back at the gun that lies upon your desk, the candied pistol, before humming thoughtfully.

He pauses.

Without even a thought, before he whips around suddenly and pulls the second gun on you and fires, you already have a thick wall of nougat raised between you and him. Six consecutive shots ring out followed by six hollow thuds. A smell of slightly singed sugar drifts into your office. Then the wall crumbles into pieces on the floor and take the bullets down with it.

As the hollow cases clatter noisily to the floor, you see Droog standing there with his gun raised, smoke still rising into the air from the searing hot barrel. The smile on his face is almost frightening. In fact, he's chuckling as he blows gently to cool the metal, and placing the gun back in its hidden location. The sound of his laughter is jarring. Eerie and almost unnatural. “Oh, Inspector. I had to try. I couldn't resist.”

You're not sure what to say to that, but as he leaves and vanishes out of this realm entirely, you have a sneaking suspicion that it is far from over. Despite his words, you know that he means that the game between you both has merely changed in nature, not that it is over in its entirety. Sitting back down in your chair, you turn these thoughts over like a sudoku-rubik's cube in your head, weighing over every word spoken this evening. The game of mobsters and detectives is most certainly evolving...

For now, however, you've won.

You begin to write your report.

Chapter Text

Epilogue

It is a balmy summer evening. The streets are alive with chatter and abuzz with the latest fashions and gossip. Everyone believes they could be anything, clubs are alive with the blaring sounds of swing jazz, and endless possibilities exist within every single person.

In the sky, the great ogle of GPI passes over his creation and regards it as fondly as ever. He sees that it is good and all is well.  In another kingdom far far away, the Weasel King smiles at the peace that seems to last between the four clans, and sets his toothy maw to the task of nibbling away at the succulent centre of an elf egg. In the background, his Queen paints yet another damn mural depicting a scene of a battle once fought - a familiar trio of hard-boiled detectives at the centre. 

In his office, PICKLE INSPECTOR tosses a half finished sudoku puzzle to one side and decides that now is as good as any time to visit his favourite tea shop. After all, the criminals aren't in a hurry to be caught, and it's terribly thirsty work pawing over the endless stream of paperwork that being in the same city as the Midnight Crew generates. 

===

Your name is Pickle Inspector and it has been a while since that game-changing encounter in the imagination realm. Despite your best efforts - and the sheer bundle of constant snark and chattery that is Problem Sleuth - the Midnight Crew are still at large. As red hot as the current case is, you feel that Team Sleuth could really stand to cool their jets a little, and so have taken it upon yourself to have a much needed break. 

Things are not the same as they were before.

Even stepping out into the warm air of a delightful summer evening feels different somehow. It's a well established routine for you, especially when the culprits refuse to simply hand themselves over in their usual rude manner, but there's a change that hangs over your head like the clouds that gather ever so slightly across the setting sun to signal the steadily approaching night. 

The same people. The same streets. The same routine. 

A different atmosphere.

It's been so long since you last saw him. Perhaps that's why you were quick to move when you recieved the carefully folded note with the beautifully crafted script. 

How on this world he managed to get in the office when all three members of Team Sleuth were in there all day you have no idea. Sometime between the fight between Sleuth and Ace maybe? GPI only knows.

You've learned to stop questioning his methods. The important thing is the motive.

Across busy sidewalks you lightly stride - well, more like shuffle, you've never really considered yourself the striding sort. Mr Sleuth maybe is the sort of person to stride. Perhaps even Mr Ace, but certainly not you with your odd gait and your crooked back and your stooped shoulders and - until the familiar door of your favourite cafe appears.

Ducking inside, you politely remove your bowler hat and allow the ever so delightful waitresses to take your coat from around your body stature. Dusty hair is combed back (yet you know it will just flop down again as soon as you're not looking) and you nervously wring your hands.

"I...I got your note." You mumble as you duck into the corner of the cafe, able to easily spot the black suit against the bright surroundings. 

In front of you, across the table, the newspaper that was being meticulously studied drops and you find yourself caught like a rabbit in headlights within that questioning, calculating, cold gaze. 

Diamonds Droog removes the cigarette from his mouth and flicks ash into the tray at his hand. Within those eyes, you catch the slightest triumphant glint of a man who is about to play a winning hand in this particular game of chance. 

"Good evening, Inspector." He purrs, the barest hint of a smile crossing his face, "Let me get you a drink and we'll talk..."